Scarlett & Giselle Series - 17: Taking Matters in Hand
Author: mamazano
Title: Taking Matters in Hand
Rating: R (suggestive situations)
Characters: Jack, Giselle, Scarlett and their guests
Disclaimer: Disney owns most of them, I just play with them. The OC’s are not up for grabs either.
Summary: Both Scarlett and Jack get a helping hand to help handle the problem at hand.
Note: Another installment in the ongoing saga of Scarlett and Giselle. Previous episodes can be found here.
Countless thanks as always for my beta reader and confidence booster,
compassrose7577, who never fails to give good advice.
****
Scarlett trudged her way up the hill toward the outskirts of town, the midday sun beating down on her bare head and shoulders. She lamented having forgotten a parasol, knowing her fair skin would freckle mercilessly under the scorching sun. If Scarlett had one thing left to be proud about, it was her flawless skin, lily-white and blemish-free, the only remaining semblance she had of being a lady.
Her destination was her former place of employment, The Garden of Eden. After having run off a few nights previous, without a word of explanation to anyone, Scarlett was too pragmatic to hope that she would still have a position. In her panic concerning the news of the attack on Giselle, her only thoughts had been for her friend. Now, in the sobering light of day, the reality of her actions was all too clear. No longer would she have the protection of the bordello, to protect her from a similar fate as had befallen Giselle.
The injured Giselle remained behind, under the temporary protection of Captain Thomas, a stranger who had befriended them both, for motives still unclear in Scarlett’s mind. The fact that he was a friend of Jack Sparrow’s allayed her concerns somewhat, but she was reluctant to trust any man purely on another’s word. Yet, Thomas had shown nothing but kindness, to her and her friend, going as far as to offer them shelter on his ship, until other arrangements could be made.
Said arrangements were what had driven Scarlett from Giselle’s side, and out into the hot sun of a Tortuga day. It was imperative she find some way to repay the kindness of the good Captain, and more permanent-and hopefully safe-- lodgings for her and Giselle. But first, Scarlett needed to resolve if she still had a position with her employer - and, if not, attempt to retrieve her personal effects.
After a long, dry walk, Scarlett finally reached her destination. The building sat in languid silence, the buzzing of bees amidst the flowering vines the only sound to disturb its tranquil slumber. With some trepidation, she climbed the stairs of the front porch, her face flushed and hot, her skirts dusty. A trickle of sweat snaked its way down her back as she wiped her palms on her skirts, smoothed her hair and rang the bell.
It was several minutes before the door was answered by the mulatto maid. She peered out through the windowpane before opening the door. She did not smile.
“You no come in by front door. Coo, you no work here.” She started to shut the door, but Scarlett put her foot on the threshold and stopped her.
“Please, I need to speak to the Madame.”
The maid shook her head. “You no work here,” she repeated with conviction. “Go.” She once again tried to close the door, but was interrupted by a voice from behind.
“Leave it, I will handle this.”
Madame Rose appeared over the maid’s shoulder, an imposing figure even in her silk dressing gown and slippers, obviously having recently risen for the day. She gave Scarlett a withering glance and jerked her head towards the anteroom off the main hall.
“You have five minutes,” she said in a brusque voice, as the maid scurried off down the darkened hallway. Settling herself in a large upholstered chair, as if a queen on her throne, Madame Rose waved her hand at Scarlett. “State your business,” she commanded.
Scarlett found herself flushed and stammered. “I came to apologize; I realize I left rather abruptly…”
“You left with one of my better customers, no doubt to pocket whatever he’d agreed for the night’s entertainment, a transgression unacceptable in this establishment.” Madame Rose’s disapproval was stamped on her face. “For someone with so little rank, for the short time you were here, you certainly put on airs,” she added with scorn. “The other girls informed me that you were both unpleasant, and superior, in your dealings with them. They were not sorry to see you go.”
“It’s not how you think, truly!” Scarlett pressed to offer a self-defense. “I would never have rushed off as I did, except I heard news of a friend, who had been grievously injured.” She took a deep breath. “I promise you it will not happen again.”
“It most certainly will not. You no longer have a position here. You’d best go back to the gutter from where you came.” Madame Rose stood, signifying the interview was over. “As I told the others, a tavern slattern never rises above the filth.”
“Very well.” Scarlett squared her shoulders and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “May I at least be permitted to gather my belongings?”
“Certainly.” Rose smiled, a hard curl of the lips that did not reach her eyes. “I instructed the girls to remove them from the premise. I believe you will find them in the dust heap.”
****
Jack, still clad only in his knee-length shirt, was perched on top of the heavy Captain’s chair in his cabin on the Black Pearl, trying to remain patient while the diminutive dressmaker, Pierre, busily took measurements for the new breeches he’d been commissioned to make.
“Oh!” exclaimed Pierre in affected dismay. He made another disgusted sound. “It is so large!”
Startled, since he was quite unaccustomed to criticisms of such nature, Jack took a puzzled look down. “Eh?”
“Look at it!” Pierre went on in a flurry of hands. “Like a balloon, it billows!”
Jack bent to peer slightly closer. “Doesn’t do that ordinarily,” he murmured under his breath.
“Such a burden to your savoir-faire!” The little man sounded nearly acrimonious with mortification.
Propping his hands on his hips, Jack mused. “Never considered it a burden either,” he said through the corner of his mouth.
“I shall create you a new one,” Pierre squealed, clapping his hands. “A smaller one, a more stylish one!”
“What!!”
“Oui! All it will take is a few snips here, a few tucks there… and voilà!”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Whirling with glee, Pierre stopped, his face falling at the look on Jack’s. “Your shirt,” he explained, barely patient. “It is énorme, like a chemise.”
“I knew that!” Jack straightened indignantly. “Knew that all the time. Breeches,” he said, recovering his composure to point a stern finger. “That was our agreement.”
“Ah!” Pierre gave a Gallic shrug as he flipped a dismissive hand. “Agreements. Treaties. You English are all so concerned with these rules.”
“Breeches!” hissed Jack between a glaringly false display of teeth.
Pierre went back to his task at hand with a small huff. Silence descended on the cabin, as the obviously upset Pierre continued taking his measurements. Jack fidgeted on the chair, the deafening silence was worse than Pierre’s constant prattling. Unable to stand it any longer, Jack made an attempt to appease the couturière.
“So what exactly do you plan to do in Tortuga?” Jack asked.
“Mfopen meupf meown shoppfe,” Pierre managed around a mouthful of pins.
Jack raised a quizzical brow. “It that so. And who, pray tell will be shoppfeng in your shoppfe?”
Pierre glared up at Jack. Removing the pins from his mouth, Pierre explained. “You are well known in this Tortuga, oui? Your good word with the ladies, it with be enough, je suis correcte?”
Jack glittered a grin his way and conceded, “I know of several. Make that dozens… more or less, mostly more…” He paused and smiled to himself, contemplating the welcome he was certain to receive.
The women will positively flock, especially at the promise of a new gown.
Jack’s mind, wandering towards the carnal, was not helping matters at hand. Pierre’s hands, groping and wrapping, and otherwise meandering along Jack’s thighs were an added distraction, adding to the growing problem.
“Mon capitaine!” Pierre stepped back and threw up his hands in disgust. “How am I to get a measurement most accurate, if the measurement, it keeps growing?”
Jack glanced down at himself, noting the definite protrusion under his shirt. He gave a wicked grin. “As you were gent.” After no noticeable change occurred, Jack shrugged. “Never did listen to me. Mind of his own that one.”
Irate, Pierre waved a long strip of paper at Jack and spewed a string of epithets. Jack managed to translate most of them, smirking at the more colorful, including one which, if Jack’s rudimentary grasp of the French language was correct, made a distinct comparison between a certain part of his anatomy and a common barnyard animal.
“Look at these!” Pierre sputtered, holding out the strip of paper on which several notches had been made. “I cannot create your most precious breeches if you keep changing the measurements!
“Can I bloody well help it, if me parts are wanting attention?” Jack groused. “Been a bloody long time between ports and you and your bloody hands are not helping matters.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’ve a better idea, I suggest you work around the wee problem.”
Pierre rolled his eyes. “That is the problem; it is not a wee problem. It is a problem most magnifique, but not what you call wee, oui?”
“Really?” Jack rolled his eyes in turn.
“Oui!” Pierre surveyed the display with an eye that was measuring more than inseams. Without warning, he snaked a hand under the shirttail and made a fortuitous grab.
With a sputtering choke, Jack froze, a pleasurably shocked look replacing the startled one.
“One should never refer to one such as this as ‘wee’.” Pierre affirmed.
A crooked smile grew-along with other things, as Pierre took matters in hand. Literally. Jack wanted to reply-actually had something quite clever to say, truth be told-but found he was suddenly tongue-tied.
Pierre smiled, innocently, batting his eyelashes. “But, since you insist, I am certain that I shall be able to handle this not so wee problem most satisfactorily. Would you not agree?”
“Oui,” Jack managed to croak.
****
Thomas awoke to find Scarlett gone. Figuring she’d gone ashore for necessities, he didn’t give the matter much thought. But, when she hadn’t returned by mid-afternoon, he began to worry that perhaps something had happened to her. He did not believe Scarlett would willingly abandon her friend and decided to go ashore and see if he could find where she went. Heading up the hill, Thomas figured the first place to look for her would be her former place of employment.
Thomas found Scarlett kneeling in the dirt of the stable yard behind the brothel, tears streaming down her face. In her hand was a broken wooden box, its contents scattered amidst the straw and muck from the stalls.
“Scarlett!”
Startled, she hurriedly wiped the tears from her face. “Captain Thomas! Whatever are you doing here?” She stood up, brushing the straw and dirt from her skirt. “How is Giselle? Who is with her?”
Thomas smiled with relief. “She is safe. I have both my first mate and cook keeping an eye on her. They are both reliable and trustworthy,” he reassured her. “I thought I might be able to help explain matters to the Madame.”
Scarlett sighed and shook her head. “It won’t do any good, I am afraid.” She looked down at the soiled items in her hands and added, her voice breaking, “Just as well, I suppose. They all hate me.”
Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the house, where several curtains swiftly fell back into place. Their meeting was not going unobserved. “Why do you think that?” he asked, curious as to what might have already transpired.
Scarlett didn’t answer as she bent down and picked up a mud-covered broach, wiping it with her thumb. She bit her lip, tears once again welling in her eyes.
“Yours?” he asked her in a gentle voice.
Scarlett nodded. “It was my mother’s.” Turning, she blurted out in bitter anguish, “This was all I had left to remember her by, all I treasured! And they took it and threw it out like the morning’s slop.”
Scarlett wiped her eyes and went back to rummaging through the kitchen garbage, several chickens pecking alongside. She crammed the items she found into the box, obviously not wanting to linger longer than necessary.
Thomas sensed she was not looking for sympathy yet he could not help but feel for the poor woman. He squatted down beside her. “Let me at least settle with the Madame for your wages,” and said in a low voice. “You go on back to your friend, I’ll catch up later.” He felt his anger building at the callous behavior of the others. Compensation for lost wages was the least he could do to help.
Thomas studied Scarlett as she made her way down the lane. An enigma waiting to be explored; he’d sensed, from their first meeting that she was different from the other wenches he’d known. She was still a strumpet, yes, but a reluctant one. He looked forward to learning more about her.
****
Title: Taking Matters in Hand
Rating: R (suggestive situations)
Characters: Jack, Giselle, Scarlett and their guests
Disclaimer: Disney owns most of them, I just play with them. The OC’s are not up for grabs either.
Summary: Both Scarlett and Jack get a helping hand to help handle the problem at hand.
Note: Another installment in the ongoing saga of Scarlett and Giselle. Previous episodes can be found here.
Countless thanks as always for my beta reader and confidence booster,
compassrose7577, who never fails to give good advice.
****
Scarlett trudged her way up the hill toward the outskirts of town, the midday sun beating down on her bare head and shoulders. She lamented having forgotten a parasol, knowing her fair skin would freckle mercilessly under the scorching sun. If Scarlett had one thing left to be proud about, it was her flawless skin, lily-white and blemish-free, the only remaining semblance she had of being a lady.
Her destination was her former place of employment, The Garden of Eden. After having run off a few nights previous, without a word of explanation to anyone, Scarlett was too pragmatic to hope that she would still have a position. In her panic concerning the news of the attack on Giselle, her only thoughts had been for her friend. Now, in the sobering light of day, the reality of her actions was all too clear. No longer would she have the protection of the bordello, to protect her from a similar fate as had befallen Giselle.
The injured Giselle remained behind, under the temporary protection of Captain Thomas, a stranger who had befriended them both, for motives still unclear in Scarlett’s mind. The fact that he was a friend of Jack Sparrow’s allayed her concerns somewhat, but she was reluctant to trust any man purely on another’s word. Yet, Thomas had shown nothing but kindness, to her and her friend, going as far as to offer them shelter on his ship, until other arrangements could be made.
Said arrangements were what had driven Scarlett from Giselle’s side, and out into the hot sun of a Tortuga day. It was imperative she find some way to repay the kindness of the good Captain, and more permanent-and hopefully safe-- lodgings for her and Giselle. But first, Scarlett needed to resolve if she still had a position with her employer - and, if not, attempt to retrieve her personal effects.
After a long, dry walk, Scarlett finally reached her destination. The building sat in languid silence, the buzzing of bees amidst the flowering vines the only sound to disturb its tranquil slumber. With some trepidation, she climbed the stairs of the front porch, her face flushed and hot, her skirts dusty. A trickle of sweat snaked its way down her back as she wiped her palms on her skirts, smoothed her hair and rang the bell.
It was several minutes before the door was answered by the mulatto maid. She peered out through the windowpane before opening the door. She did not smile.
“You no come in by front door. Coo, you no work here.” She started to shut the door, but Scarlett put her foot on the threshold and stopped her.
“Please, I need to speak to the Madame.”
The maid shook her head. “You no work here,” she repeated with conviction. “Go.” She once again tried to close the door, but was interrupted by a voice from behind.
“Leave it, I will handle this.”
Madame Rose appeared over the maid’s shoulder, an imposing figure even in her silk dressing gown and slippers, obviously having recently risen for the day. She gave Scarlett a withering glance and jerked her head towards the anteroom off the main hall.
“You have five minutes,” she said in a brusque voice, as the maid scurried off down the darkened hallway. Settling herself in a large upholstered chair, as if a queen on her throne, Madame Rose waved her hand at Scarlett. “State your business,” she commanded.
Scarlett found herself flushed and stammered. “I came to apologize; I realize I left rather abruptly…”
“You left with one of my better customers, no doubt to pocket whatever he’d agreed for the night’s entertainment, a transgression unacceptable in this establishment.” Madame Rose’s disapproval was stamped on her face. “For someone with so little rank, for the short time you were here, you certainly put on airs,” she added with scorn. “The other girls informed me that you were both unpleasant, and superior, in your dealings with them. They were not sorry to see you go.”
“It’s not how you think, truly!” Scarlett pressed to offer a self-defense. “I would never have rushed off as I did, except I heard news of a friend, who had been grievously injured.” She took a deep breath. “I promise you it will not happen again.”
“It most certainly will not. You no longer have a position here. You’d best go back to the gutter from where you came.” Madame Rose stood, signifying the interview was over. “As I told the others, a tavern slattern never rises above the filth.”
“Very well.” Scarlett squared her shoulders and swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “May I at least be permitted to gather my belongings?”
“Certainly.” Rose smiled, a hard curl of the lips that did not reach her eyes. “I instructed the girls to remove them from the premise. I believe you will find them in the dust heap.”
****
Jack, still clad only in his knee-length shirt, was perched on top of the heavy Captain’s chair in his cabin on the Black Pearl, trying to remain patient while the diminutive dressmaker, Pierre, busily took measurements for the new breeches he’d been commissioned to make.
“Oh!” exclaimed Pierre in affected dismay. He made another disgusted sound. “It is so large!”
Startled, since he was quite unaccustomed to criticisms of such nature, Jack took a puzzled look down. “Eh?”
“Look at it!” Pierre went on in a flurry of hands. “Like a balloon, it billows!”
Jack bent to peer slightly closer. “Doesn’t do that ordinarily,” he murmured under his breath.
“Such a burden to your savoir-faire!” The little man sounded nearly acrimonious with mortification.
Propping his hands on his hips, Jack mused. “Never considered it a burden either,” he said through the corner of his mouth.
“I shall create you a new one,” Pierre squealed, clapping his hands. “A smaller one, a more stylish one!”
“What!!”
“Oui! All it will take is a few snips here, a few tucks there… and voilà!”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Whirling with glee, Pierre stopped, his face falling at the look on Jack’s. “Your shirt,” he explained, barely patient. “It is énorme, like a chemise.”
“I knew that!” Jack straightened indignantly. “Knew that all the time. Breeches,” he said, recovering his composure to point a stern finger. “That was our agreement.”
“Ah!” Pierre gave a Gallic shrug as he flipped a dismissive hand. “Agreements. Treaties. You English are all so concerned with these rules.”
“Breeches!” hissed Jack between a glaringly false display of teeth.
Pierre went back to his task at hand with a small huff. Silence descended on the cabin, as the obviously upset Pierre continued taking his measurements. Jack fidgeted on the chair, the deafening silence was worse than Pierre’s constant prattling. Unable to stand it any longer, Jack made an attempt to appease the couturière.
“So what exactly do you plan to do in Tortuga?” Jack asked.
“Mfopen meupf meown shoppfe,” Pierre managed around a mouthful of pins.
Jack raised a quizzical brow. “It that so. And who, pray tell will be shoppfeng in your shoppfe?”
Pierre glared up at Jack. Removing the pins from his mouth, Pierre explained. “You are well known in this Tortuga, oui? Your good word with the ladies, it with be enough, je suis correcte?”
Jack glittered a grin his way and conceded, “I know of several. Make that dozens… more or less, mostly more…” He paused and smiled to himself, contemplating the welcome he was certain to receive.
The women will positively flock, especially at the promise of a new gown.
Jack’s mind, wandering towards the carnal, was not helping matters at hand. Pierre’s hands, groping and wrapping, and otherwise meandering along Jack’s thighs were an added distraction, adding to the growing problem.
“Mon capitaine!” Pierre stepped back and threw up his hands in disgust. “How am I to get a measurement most accurate, if the measurement, it keeps growing?”
Jack glanced down at himself, noting the definite protrusion under his shirt. He gave a wicked grin. “As you were gent.” After no noticeable change occurred, Jack shrugged. “Never did listen to me. Mind of his own that one.”
Irate, Pierre waved a long strip of paper at Jack and spewed a string of epithets. Jack managed to translate most of them, smirking at the more colorful, including one which, if Jack’s rudimentary grasp of the French language was correct, made a distinct comparison between a certain part of his anatomy and a common barnyard animal.
“Look at these!” Pierre sputtered, holding out the strip of paper on which several notches had been made. “I cannot create your most precious breeches if you keep changing the measurements!
“Can I bloody well help it, if me parts are wanting attention?” Jack groused. “Been a bloody long time between ports and you and your bloody hands are not helping matters.” Jack narrowed his eyes. “Unless you’ve a better idea, I suggest you work around the wee problem.”
Pierre rolled his eyes. “That is the problem; it is not a wee problem. It is a problem most magnifique, but not what you call wee, oui?”
“Really?” Jack rolled his eyes in turn.
“Oui!” Pierre surveyed the display with an eye that was measuring more than inseams. Without warning, he snaked a hand under the shirttail and made a fortuitous grab.
With a sputtering choke, Jack froze, a pleasurably shocked look replacing the startled one.
“One should never refer to one such as this as ‘wee’.” Pierre affirmed.
A crooked smile grew-along with other things, as Pierre took matters in hand. Literally. Jack wanted to reply-actually had something quite clever to say, truth be told-but found he was suddenly tongue-tied.
Pierre smiled, innocently, batting his eyelashes. “But, since you insist, I am certain that I shall be able to handle this not so wee problem most satisfactorily. Would you not agree?”
“Oui,” Jack managed to croak.
****
Thomas awoke to find Scarlett gone. Figuring she’d gone ashore for necessities, he didn’t give the matter much thought. But, when she hadn’t returned by mid-afternoon, he began to worry that perhaps something had happened to her. He did not believe Scarlett would willingly abandon her friend and decided to go ashore and see if he could find where she went. Heading up the hill, Thomas figured the first place to look for her would be her former place of employment.
Thomas found Scarlett kneeling in the dirt of the stable yard behind the brothel, tears streaming down her face. In her hand was a broken wooden box, its contents scattered amidst the straw and muck from the stalls.
“Scarlett!”
Startled, she hurriedly wiped the tears from her face. “Captain Thomas! Whatever are you doing here?” She stood up, brushing the straw and dirt from her skirt. “How is Giselle? Who is with her?”
Thomas smiled with relief. “She is safe. I have both my first mate and cook keeping an eye on her. They are both reliable and trustworthy,” he reassured her. “I thought I might be able to help explain matters to the Madame.”
Scarlett sighed and shook her head. “It won’t do any good, I am afraid.” She looked down at the soiled items in her hands and added, her voice breaking, “Just as well, I suppose. They all hate me.”
Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the house, where several curtains swiftly fell back into place. Their meeting was not going unobserved. “Why do you think that?” he asked, curious as to what might have already transpired.
Scarlett didn’t answer as she bent down and picked up a mud-covered broach, wiping it with her thumb. She bit her lip, tears once again welling in her eyes.
“Yours?” he asked her in a gentle voice.
Scarlett nodded. “It was my mother’s.” Turning, she blurted out in bitter anguish, “This was all I had left to remember her by, all I treasured! And they took it and threw it out like the morning’s slop.”
Scarlett wiped her eyes and went back to rummaging through the kitchen garbage, several chickens pecking alongside. She crammed the items she found into the box, obviously not wanting to linger longer than necessary.
Thomas sensed she was not looking for sympathy yet he could not help but feel for the poor woman. He squatted down beside her. “Let me at least settle with the Madame for your wages,” and said in a low voice. “You go on back to your friend, I’ll catch up later.” He felt his anger building at the callous behavior of the others. Compensation for lost wages was the least he could do to help.
Thomas studied Scarlett as she made her way down the lane. An enigma waiting to be explored; he’d sensed, from their first meeting that she was different from the other wenches he’d known. She was still a strumpet, yes, but a reluctant one. He looked forward to learning more about her.
****