Scarlett & Giselle Series - 15: Cabin Fever
Author: mamazano
Title: Cabin Fever
Rating: R (overall series)
Characters: Jack, Scarlett, Giselle… with some special guest appearances
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just play with them
Summary: Jack finds his new cabin boy to be a handful; Scarlett and Giselle find temporary refuge on the Griselle.
As always, profound thanks goes out once again to my beta-wizard,
compassrose7577, for her never-ending help and advice and support.
A continuation of the saga of Scarlett and Giselle. Previous episodes can be found here.
( Index to all Episodes )
Cabin Fever
****
The passage from New Providence to Tortuga took a torturous nine days, with prevailing winds and currents working against them, it was slow going, even for the fastest ship in the Caribbean. The Black Pearl’s crew managed to stay busy, doing whatever they could to stay out of eyesight and earshot of their injured and irate captain.
After finding Jack badly beaten and unconscious down a back alley on the seedier side of Nassau Town, Gibbs had hauled Jack back to the Pearl and weighed anchor without delay.
The entire incident would not have happened, but for their chance meeting of two former crewmembers of Jack’s, a couple of unsavory gents, strangers to Gibbs. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to return to the ship alone, while Jack accompanied the others for a “friendly drink and a not so friendly chat.”
Still, there had been something suspicious about the manner of the two men. Instead of following his captain’s orders, Gibbs waited in the shadows, and then tailed the trio as they made their way through the waterfront’s crooked streets. Unfamiliar with the area, Gibbs had soon lost track of them, and turned resignedly toward the docks, hoping his concerns were unfounded. He’d almost reached the wharf, when a flustered Pierre had appeared, wringing his hands and deploring what he had just witnessed.
“Monsieur Gibbous! You must come quickly!” Pierre had tugged on his arm, his face twisted with emotion. “Your capitaine! They are killing him!”
The last words were delivered in a high-pitched squeak, sounding more like “keeling” than “killing” to Gibbs, but he caught the gist. Either way, keeling or killing, it didn’t bode well for Jack.
He had followed the frantic Frenchman through the tangle of streets and lanes, until they arrived at a dank alleyway between two precariously tilted buildings. Gibbs carried his pistol in one hand, and cutlass in the other, as he crept along the narrow passage. Finally, they found Jack where his foes had left him, in a crumpled heap behind a pile of crates.
It had taken both Gibbs and Pierre to half-drag, half-carry Jack back to the Pearl. That had been three days ago. Gibbs shook his head as he glanced toward the closed doors of the Great Cabin. Fortunately, Jack had recovered sufficiently from his injuries to be up and about, although he was still too weak and lightheaded to resume his duties. Unfortunate for everyone aboard, the captain was also suffering from a bad case of cabin fever, the presence of the French dressmaker only aggravating matters all the more. Gibbs’ only hope was that they reached their destination before somebody was actually “keeled.”
****
Scarlett stood at the rail of the Griselle, gazing at the lights of the town, her mind a jumble of emotions after the evening’s events. The ship beneath her feet gently rocked at her mooring in the dark waters of the horseshoe-shaped bay of Tortuga, her bare masts reaching upward into the black velvet of the sky, studded with the countless stars of the tropical night.
Apart from the gentle lapping of the waves against the ship, the night was quiet, with only the dull murmur of voices of the few sailors who remained on board, and the occasional roar of drunken laughter from the other vessels anchored nearby in the harbor. The sound of fiddle and mandolin wafted across the water, the melancholy strains of a familiar tune, hauntingly beautiful in its simplistic rendition.
Scarlett shivered, from both the night air and the tune. Greensleeves, a song from her childhood in England, a happier time before her world had come crashing down around her. She had no one else in the world now, no one to call family, except for her friend Giselle. It had taken almost losing her for Scarlett to come to that realization.
Earlier that evening, the doctor had given Giselle a sleeping draught before leaving, assuring Scarlett that her friend would recover from her injuries.
“The best thing for her these next few days is rest. I’ve left some powders to help her sleep,” Doctor Mulhoney had told Scarlett, accepting the glass of port and a generous amount of coin from Captain Thomas, then lingering long enough to add some sage advice.
“When your friend has recovered, it might be best for the both of you to try to find a better place, perhaps one of the finer houses in the hills. You’re both young and attractive; it shouldn’t be difficult. It certainly would offer more protection than the taverns.”
Scarlett had thanked the doctor, but she had worked at the Garden of Eden long enough to know the difficulties in finding a place truly safe for women of their ilk. And, after rushing off as she did, it was highly unlikely she’d have a position to go back to. With no money and no prospects, it appeared she would have to go back to the taverns and docks, and hope she didn’t end up like Giselle.
She didn’t hear Thomas approach, until he placed the thin blanket around her shoulders.
“Beautiful from out here, isn’t it?” Thomas said gesturing towards the town’s twinkling lights in the distance. “Almost magical, a paradise.” He leaned back against the rail and sought out her eyes. “Unless, you know better.”
Shrugging, Scarlett tried to keep her voice emotionless. “No place is a true paradise, once you get to know it.”
“Or no one?” Thomas smiled.
“No one, no place.”
Thomas chuckled. “Perhaps you just haven’t found the right one.”
Scarlett sighed and gazed out into the night. “Perhaps.”
****
“It is my - how do you say it - grande fortune, to have met you,” Pierre smiled at Jack as he daintily smeared jam onto a fresh baked scone. He took a bite, rolling his eyes as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Not only are you very brave and charming…”
It was Jack’s turn to roll his eyes, scrutinizing the dandy dressmaker as he would a circling shark, with both fascination and impending doom.
Ruddy blighter prattles on like a bloody wench! It’s enough to drive an honest soul - or not so honest, as it were - to drink. Drink! Now there’s a thought!
Rubbing the goose egg-sized knot on the back of his head, Jack groaned as Pierre babbled on, then grabbed the half-empty bottle of rum sitting on the table, taking a long swallow.
“…you are most hospitable, and your cook, he is très bon, le véritable artiste culinaire.”
“Well then,” Jack suggested, grimacing as he went to stand up, “perhaps you and Mister Kirkland could have a nice, long chat about it.” He leaned on the table as the room began to spin, the throbbing of his bruised ribs making him wince.
“No, no, monsieur, do not try to walk!” Pierre rushed to offer help, his hands fluttering as Jack teetered perilously to port. “You should rest, here let me…”
Jack roughly brushed off the Frenchman’s hands as the room twirled faster. Blinking his eyes, and with the utmost concentration, Jack groped his way carefully to his bunk, where he collapsed in a frustrated heap.
“Bugger.”
“I do not believe, mon cher capitaine, that would be wise, in your condition.” Pierre observed, fussing over him. “I shall bring you some water and a wet rag for your forehead. I do believe you are feverish; a cold poultice will work wonders. I wonder if your excellent cook has any…”
“Would you please shut it?!” Jack glared at him and added through clenched teeth. “Listen to me: I don’t want any water or wet rags or poultry or whatever. I just want you to GO AWAY!”
“You are not yourself, it is the fever,” Pierre went on, blithely ignoring him. “It is making you crazy. I will talk to your Monsieur Kirkland. A nice cup of chamomile tea, or perhaps some comfrey, an herb most excellent to abate the fits of agues and allay the sharpness of humors...”
Feeling quite sharp and humorless at the moment, Jack decided his best defense was to just ignore the jabbering Pierre. He shut his eyes and feigned sleep.
Don’t know what I did to deserve this.
****
On the fourth day out of New Providence, Jack invoked the right of parley. The way he figured it, if he was going to be stuck in such close quarters with the diminutive dressmaker, Pierre, one of two things was going to happen: Either he was going to follow through on his numerous threats and finally “keel” the Frenchman, or he was going to find some manner in which to make the voyage more bearable.
Rum was good. Actually, rum was very good. With enough rum in his belly, Jack could almost tolerate the incessant prattling of Pierre’s. Or, better yet, drink himself into oblivion, in which case he would not have to listen to him at all. Said remedy had been quite effective, the first few nights, when the combination of rum and wooziness from his head injury had rendered Jack, for the most part, more unconscious than conscious.
Now on the mend, Jack was finding it increasingly more difficult to convince Pierre to go away and leave him alone. Take that morning for example: it had started out innocent enough, as any other morning might. The sun had risen, the wind had freshened, and the watch had changed. All was calm, smooth sailing, until…
“Bonjour, mon cher capitaine!”
A disgustingly chipper Pierre minced his way into the cabin, balancing a tray upon which a pot of coffee and two cups sat nestled alongside a bowl of oranges, a plate of freshly baked scones and a crock of jam. To complete the vignette was a squat bottle sporting a bunch of… flowers?
“I have brought you le petit-déjeuner exquis, from your most excellent cook, Monsieur Kirkland. Est touts à votre satisfaction?” Pierre set the tray carefully on the end of the bunk and began to pour the coffee.
Where the bloody hell did he get flowers, in the middle of the bloody ocean?
“Would you care for crème et le sucre?” he asked Jack, his eyebrows raised in a quizzical fashion.
“Rum.” Jack sat up and folded his arms across his bare chest. He gestured with his chin towards the tray. “A tot of rum in me coffee. And no flowers.”
Pierre raised his shoulders in apology. “They are to complete the palette; the colors are all so drab, so dismal,” he complained, flapping a dismayed hand. “All this black, these room, it is like a tomb.”
“All it’s lacking is the bloody body,” Jack muttered, glowering over his cup.
Pierre beamed. “Ah, but you are not dead. Your health, it has improved, no?” He spread a large dollop of jam on a warm scone and passed it to Jack. “You must eat, to regain your strength.”
It’s like havin’ a bloody nanny! Jack scowled, but took the scone, munching it absentmindedly as he reflected on the situation.
On one hand, having the doting Pierre as a cabin boy was not completely without its rewards. Since he’d arrived, Jack had wanted for nothing, had been treated like the bloody Pirate King, for that matter, been waited on hand and foot. On the other hand, it was those same hands that were causing Jack a bit of concern. If he weren’t patting or preening, arranging or smoothing him with them, Pierre was finding other excuses for his hands to stray Jack’s way.
Like a bloody kraken, that one. Waking up to them hands everywhere. Claims he’s treating me wounds, though I’m pretty damn sure I weren’t injured there. That part of me seems to be working just fine, actually. Too fine, as it were. Bloody damn awkward, that. And the bloody frog’s not making matters easier with his all talk about swords and thrusts…
“You were magnifique!” Pierre reiterated, as he peeled an orange. Brandishing the paring knife like a sword, he waved it around as he gushed. “Your thrust, your parry!” Resuming peeling he added, with a coy glance from under his lashes, ‘”Alas, I am such a novice. You must show me how to handle your sword!”
Jack coughed and sputtered, spewing the coffee. Enough! Time to go. He looked around and glowered. “May I ask why my breeches are gone, again?”
Pierre gave Jack an innocent look. “They were filthy. Rags, a disgrace!” He popped a slice of orange in his mouth and waved a vague hand towards the door. “They are out there.”
“You threw them out?!” Jack bristled.
“It was my desire, oui.” Pierre pouted. “But your Monsieur Gibbous, he said it would be… how did he say it? Dreadful bad luck to do so.” He shrugged again. “So, I washed them.”
Jack sat up in the bunk, dumbfounded. “You washed them?”
Pierre frowned. “They are in dreadful repair. You must allow me create you some new ones.” He pointed to his own breeches, and added in excitement, “You should be dressed in finery fit for a King! I shall create a masterpiece! Black velvet breeches, with a fine linen shirt...” He paused and added in a sly tone, “All the women of Tortuga, they will ooh-la-la when they see you, n’est-ce pas?”
Jack leaned back and smiled. He knew of two women that, with the promise of a new gown, would make him a very happy man, indeed.
This allegiance with Pierre might turn out to be a grande fortune, after all.
****
“You must be tired,” Thomas said. “Perhaps you would like to go below, out of the night air.”
Scarlett nodded, tiredly, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. It was reasonable to suppose that he would be wanting payment, in return for his hospitality. Not that she would begrudge him anything, after his kindness toward Giselle. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to forgo sleep to make ends meet.
Thomas held the door to his cabin open as she passed, and followed her inside. The captain's cabin was below the quarterdeck, accessible only from the main deck. It was spacious yet cozy, with layers of Turkish rugs covering the floor, and large, softly upholstered chairs scattered in small groupings, and extra pillows tossed everywhere. Stacks of books nestled against chairs, and on the gallery ledge, as well as on the chart table and corner desk. The room spoke of a man who enjoyed his comforts, but not his excesses.
Scarlett had barely noticed the room earlier. Worried about Giselle, she’d spent her time sitting beside the bunk, separated from the main room by an ornately carved screen. Scarlett went immediately to check on her friend, and found Giselle peacefully asleep, nestled in the luxury of soft linen sheets, goose down pillows and deep mattress. The swelling on her face had gone down some, allowing her to be once again recognizable. It appeared she was dreaming, a small smile turning the corner of her mouth.
“She reminds me of my sister, Nell,” Thomas said, in a low voice at Scarlett’s elbow.
She turned in surprise. “Is that why you helped her?” Scarlett scanned his face, trying to fathom the motives behind those kind blue eyes.
Thomas chuckled and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Perhaps. There were other reasons, as well.” He tilted his head toward the cabin. “She should sleep the night. Why don’t I ring my cook, and get you something to eat? You must be famished.”
Now that he mentioned it, Scarlett was hungry. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last. But the hour was incredibly late, or early, depending on which end of the day one began from. Dawn couldn’t be but an hour or two away.
“No, don’t wake him. It can wait until morning.” Scarlett stood and gazed around the room, uncertain what was to come next. For sure, she thought her host would be expecting payment. His next words, however, came as something of a surprise.
“Well, if I cannot feed you, the least I can offer you is a place to sleep.” Thomas smiled, eyes twinkling. “I’m afraid the bunk is already occupied. But the cushions in the chairs are quite comfortable. I’ve spent more than a few nights in them.”
He walked around and plumped a couple of pillows, pointing to the largest and softest looking chair. “I will see that you are not disturbed. There is a basin in the corner and some brandy on the side table, if you feel inclined.”
And with that, and a gracious bow, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Scarlett was too tired to attempt to understand the man. She thankfully settled down in the plush chair and fell immediately into an exhausted sleep, only to dream that she were a princess, held captive in the tall tower of a burning castle, the flames creeping up the spiral stair trapping her, unable to flee.
****
Title: Cabin Fever
Rating: R (overall series)
Characters: Jack, Scarlett, Giselle… with some special guest appearances
Disclaimer: Disney owns them, I just play with them
Summary: Jack finds his new cabin boy to be a handful; Scarlett and Giselle find temporary refuge on the Griselle.
As always, profound thanks goes out once again to my beta-wizard,
compassrose7577, for her never-ending help and advice and support.
A continuation of the saga of Scarlett and Giselle. Previous episodes can be found here.
( Index to all Episodes )
Cabin Fever
****
The passage from New Providence to Tortuga took a torturous nine days, with prevailing winds and currents working against them, it was slow going, even for the fastest ship in the Caribbean. The Black Pearl’s crew managed to stay busy, doing whatever they could to stay out of eyesight and earshot of their injured and irate captain.
After finding Jack badly beaten and unconscious down a back alley on the seedier side of Nassau Town, Gibbs had hauled Jack back to the Pearl and weighed anchor without delay.
The entire incident would not have happened, but for their chance meeting of two former crewmembers of Jack’s, a couple of unsavory gents, strangers to Gibbs. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to return to the ship alone, while Jack accompanied the others for a “friendly drink and a not so friendly chat.”
Still, there had been something suspicious about the manner of the two men. Instead of following his captain’s orders, Gibbs waited in the shadows, and then tailed the trio as they made their way through the waterfront’s crooked streets. Unfamiliar with the area, Gibbs had soon lost track of them, and turned resignedly toward the docks, hoping his concerns were unfounded. He’d almost reached the wharf, when a flustered Pierre had appeared, wringing his hands and deploring what he had just witnessed.
“Monsieur Gibbous! You must come quickly!” Pierre had tugged on his arm, his face twisted with emotion. “Your capitaine! They are killing him!”
The last words were delivered in a high-pitched squeak, sounding more like “keeling” than “killing” to Gibbs, but he caught the gist. Either way, keeling or killing, it didn’t bode well for Jack.
He had followed the frantic Frenchman through the tangle of streets and lanes, until they arrived at a dank alleyway between two precariously tilted buildings. Gibbs carried his pistol in one hand, and cutlass in the other, as he crept along the narrow passage. Finally, they found Jack where his foes had left him, in a crumpled heap behind a pile of crates.
It had taken both Gibbs and Pierre to half-drag, half-carry Jack back to the Pearl. That had been three days ago. Gibbs shook his head as he glanced toward the closed doors of the Great Cabin. Fortunately, Jack had recovered sufficiently from his injuries to be up and about, although he was still too weak and lightheaded to resume his duties. Unfortunate for everyone aboard, the captain was also suffering from a bad case of cabin fever, the presence of the French dressmaker only aggravating matters all the more. Gibbs’ only hope was that they reached their destination before somebody was actually “keeled.”
****
Scarlett stood at the rail of the Griselle, gazing at the lights of the town, her mind a jumble of emotions after the evening’s events. The ship beneath her feet gently rocked at her mooring in the dark waters of the horseshoe-shaped bay of Tortuga, her bare masts reaching upward into the black velvet of the sky, studded with the countless stars of the tropical night.
Apart from the gentle lapping of the waves against the ship, the night was quiet, with only the dull murmur of voices of the few sailors who remained on board, and the occasional roar of drunken laughter from the other vessels anchored nearby in the harbor. The sound of fiddle and mandolin wafted across the water, the melancholy strains of a familiar tune, hauntingly beautiful in its simplistic rendition.
Scarlett shivered, from both the night air and the tune. Greensleeves, a song from her childhood in England, a happier time before her world had come crashing down around her. She had no one else in the world now, no one to call family, except for her friend Giselle. It had taken almost losing her for Scarlett to come to that realization.
Earlier that evening, the doctor had given Giselle a sleeping draught before leaving, assuring Scarlett that her friend would recover from her injuries.
“The best thing for her these next few days is rest. I’ve left some powders to help her sleep,” Doctor Mulhoney had told Scarlett, accepting the glass of port and a generous amount of coin from Captain Thomas, then lingering long enough to add some sage advice.
“When your friend has recovered, it might be best for the both of you to try to find a better place, perhaps one of the finer houses in the hills. You’re both young and attractive; it shouldn’t be difficult. It certainly would offer more protection than the taverns.”
Scarlett had thanked the doctor, but she had worked at the Garden of Eden long enough to know the difficulties in finding a place truly safe for women of their ilk. And, after rushing off as she did, it was highly unlikely she’d have a position to go back to. With no money and no prospects, it appeared she would have to go back to the taverns and docks, and hope she didn’t end up like Giselle.
She didn’t hear Thomas approach, until he placed the thin blanket around her shoulders.
“Beautiful from out here, isn’t it?” Thomas said gesturing towards the town’s twinkling lights in the distance. “Almost magical, a paradise.” He leaned back against the rail and sought out her eyes. “Unless, you know better.”
Shrugging, Scarlett tried to keep her voice emotionless. “No place is a true paradise, once you get to know it.”
“Or no one?” Thomas smiled.
“No one, no place.”
Thomas chuckled. “Perhaps you just haven’t found the right one.”
Scarlett sighed and gazed out into the night. “Perhaps.”
****
“It is my - how do you say it - grande fortune, to have met you,” Pierre smiled at Jack as he daintily smeared jam onto a fresh baked scone. He took a bite, rolling his eyes as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Not only are you very brave and charming…”
It was Jack’s turn to roll his eyes, scrutinizing the dandy dressmaker as he would a circling shark, with both fascination and impending doom.
Ruddy blighter prattles on like a bloody wench! It’s enough to drive an honest soul - or not so honest, as it were - to drink. Drink! Now there’s a thought!
Rubbing the goose egg-sized knot on the back of his head, Jack groaned as Pierre babbled on, then grabbed the half-empty bottle of rum sitting on the table, taking a long swallow.
“…you are most hospitable, and your cook, he is très bon, le véritable artiste culinaire.”
“Well then,” Jack suggested, grimacing as he went to stand up, “perhaps you and Mister Kirkland could have a nice, long chat about it.” He leaned on the table as the room began to spin, the throbbing of his bruised ribs making him wince.
“No, no, monsieur, do not try to walk!” Pierre rushed to offer help, his hands fluttering as Jack teetered perilously to port. “You should rest, here let me…”
Jack roughly brushed off the Frenchman’s hands as the room twirled faster. Blinking his eyes, and with the utmost concentration, Jack groped his way carefully to his bunk, where he collapsed in a frustrated heap.
“Bugger.”
“I do not believe, mon cher capitaine, that would be wise, in your condition.” Pierre observed, fussing over him. “I shall bring you some water and a wet rag for your forehead. I do believe you are feverish; a cold poultice will work wonders. I wonder if your excellent cook has any…”
“Would you please shut it?!” Jack glared at him and added through clenched teeth. “Listen to me: I don’t want any water or wet rags or poultry or whatever. I just want you to GO AWAY!”
“You are not yourself, it is the fever,” Pierre went on, blithely ignoring him. “It is making you crazy. I will talk to your Monsieur Kirkland. A nice cup of chamomile tea, or perhaps some comfrey, an herb most excellent to abate the fits of agues and allay the sharpness of humors...”
Feeling quite sharp and humorless at the moment, Jack decided his best defense was to just ignore the jabbering Pierre. He shut his eyes and feigned sleep.
Don’t know what I did to deserve this.
****
On the fourth day out of New Providence, Jack invoked the right of parley. The way he figured it, if he was going to be stuck in such close quarters with the diminutive dressmaker, Pierre, one of two things was going to happen: Either he was going to follow through on his numerous threats and finally “keel” the Frenchman, or he was going to find some manner in which to make the voyage more bearable.
Rum was good. Actually, rum was very good. With enough rum in his belly, Jack could almost tolerate the incessant prattling of Pierre’s. Or, better yet, drink himself into oblivion, in which case he would not have to listen to him at all. Said remedy had been quite effective, the first few nights, when the combination of rum and wooziness from his head injury had rendered Jack, for the most part, more unconscious than conscious.
Now on the mend, Jack was finding it increasingly more difficult to convince Pierre to go away and leave him alone. Take that morning for example: it had started out innocent enough, as any other morning might. The sun had risen, the wind had freshened, and the watch had changed. All was calm, smooth sailing, until…
“Bonjour, mon cher capitaine!”
A disgustingly chipper Pierre minced his way into the cabin, balancing a tray upon which a pot of coffee and two cups sat nestled alongside a bowl of oranges, a plate of freshly baked scones and a crock of jam. To complete the vignette was a squat bottle sporting a bunch of… flowers?
“I have brought you le petit-déjeuner exquis, from your most excellent cook, Monsieur Kirkland. Est touts à votre satisfaction?” Pierre set the tray carefully on the end of the bunk and began to pour the coffee.
Where the bloody hell did he get flowers, in the middle of the bloody ocean?
“Would you care for crème et le sucre?” he asked Jack, his eyebrows raised in a quizzical fashion.
“Rum.” Jack sat up and folded his arms across his bare chest. He gestured with his chin towards the tray. “A tot of rum in me coffee. And no flowers.”
Pierre raised his shoulders in apology. “They are to complete the palette; the colors are all so drab, so dismal,” he complained, flapping a dismayed hand. “All this black, these room, it is like a tomb.”
“All it’s lacking is the bloody body,” Jack muttered, glowering over his cup.
Pierre beamed. “Ah, but you are not dead. Your health, it has improved, no?” He spread a large dollop of jam on a warm scone and passed it to Jack. “You must eat, to regain your strength.”
It’s like havin’ a bloody nanny! Jack scowled, but took the scone, munching it absentmindedly as he reflected on the situation.
On one hand, having the doting Pierre as a cabin boy was not completely without its rewards. Since he’d arrived, Jack had wanted for nothing, had been treated like the bloody Pirate King, for that matter, been waited on hand and foot. On the other hand, it was those same hands that were causing Jack a bit of concern. If he weren’t patting or preening, arranging or smoothing him with them, Pierre was finding other excuses for his hands to stray Jack’s way.
Like a bloody kraken, that one. Waking up to them hands everywhere. Claims he’s treating me wounds, though I’m pretty damn sure I weren’t injured there. That part of me seems to be working just fine, actually. Too fine, as it were. Bloody damn awkward, that. And the bloody frog’s not making matters easier with his all talk about swords and thrusts…
“You were magnifique!” Pierre reiterated, as he peeled an orange. Brandishing the paring knife like a sword, he waved it around as he gushed. “Your thrust, your parry!” Resuming peeling he added, with a coy glance from under his lashes, ‘”Alas, I am such a novice. You must show me how to handle your sword!”
Jack coughed and sputtered, spewing the coffee. Enough! Time to go. He looked around and glowered. “May I ask why my breeches are gone, again?”
Pierre gave Jack an innocent look. “They were filthy. Rags, a disgrace!” He popped a slice of orange in his mouth and waved a vague hand towards the door. “They are out there.”
“You threw them out?!” Jack bristled.
“It was my desire, oui.” Pierre pouted. “But your Monsieur Gibbous, he said it would be… how did he say it? Dreadful bad luck to do so.” He shrugged again. “So, I washed them.”
Jack sat up in the bunk, dumbfounded. “You washed them?”
Pierre frowned. “They are in dreadful repair. You must allow me create you some new ones.” He pointed to his own breeches, and added in excitement, “You should be dressed in finery fit for a King! I shall create a masterpiece! Black velvet breeches, with a fine linen shirt...” He paused and added in a sly tone, “All the women of Tortuga, they will ooh-la-la when they see you, n’est-ce pas?”
Jack leaned back and smiled. He knew of two women that, with the promise of a new gown, would make him a very happy man, indeed.
This allegiance with Pierre might turn out to be a grande fortune, after all.
****
“You must be tired,” Thomas said. “Perhaps you would like to go below, out of the night air.”
Scarlett nodded, tiredly, pulling the blanket closer around her shoulders. It was reasonable to suppose that he would be wanting payment, in return for his hospitality. Not that she would begrudge him anything, after his kindness toward Giselle. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to forgo sleep to make ends meet.
Thomas held the door to his cabin open as she passed, and followed her inside. The captain's cabin was below the quarterdeck, accessible only from the main deck. It was spacious yet cozy, with layers of Turkish rugs covering the floor, and large, softly upholstered chairs scattered in small groupings, and extra pillows tossed everywhere. Stacks of books nestled against chairs, and on the gallery ledge, as well as on the chart table and corner desk. The room spoke of a man who enjoyed his comforts, but not his excesses.
Scarlett had barely noticed the room earlier. Worried about Giselle, she’d spent her time sitting beside the bunk, separated from the main room by an ornately carved screen. Scarlett went immediately to check on her friend, and found Giselle peacefully asleep, nestled in the luxury of soft linen sheets, goose down pillows and deep mattress. The swelling on her face had gone down some, allowing her to be once again recognizable. It appeared she was dreaming, a small smile turning the corner of her mouth.
“She reminds me of my sister, Nell,” Thomas said, in a low voice at Scarlett’s elbow.
She turned in surprise. “Is that why you helped her?” Scarlett scanned his face, trying to fathom the motives behind those kind blue eyes.
Thomas chuckled and placed his arm around her shoulders. “Perhaps. There were other reasons, as well.” He tilted his head toward the cabin. “She should sleep the night. Why don’t I ring my cook, and get you something to eat? You must be famished.”
Now that he mentioned it, Scarlett was hungry. She couldn’t remember when she’d eaten last. But the hour was incredibly late, or early, depending on which end of the day one began from. Dawn couldn’t be but an hour or two away.
“No, don’t wake him. It can wait until morning.” Scarlett stood and gazed around the room, uncertain what was to come next. For sure, she thought her host would be expecting payment. His next words, however, came as something of a surprise.
“Well, if I cannot feed you, the least I can offer you is a place to sleep.” Thomas smiled, eyes twinkling. “I’m afraid the bunk is already occupied. But the cushions in the chairs are quite comfortable. I’ve spent more than a few nights in them.”
He walked around and plumped a couple of pillows, pointing to the largest and softest looking chair. “I will see that you are not disturbed. There is a basin in the corner and some brandy on the side table, if you feel inclined.”
And with that, and a gracious bow, he left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Scarlett was too tired to attempt to understand the man. She thankfully settled down in the plush chair and fell immediately into an exhausted sleep, only to dream that she were a princess, held captive in the tall tower of a burning castle, the flames creeping up the spiral stair trapping her, unable to flee.
****