Fic: Recovery (2/?)
Title: Recovery (2/?)
Author: snowbryneich
Pairing: Norribeth, with hints of Will/Elizabeth
Genre(s): Drama/Romance/Hurt!Comfort
Warning: Utterly AU, marriage fic, mentions of sexual assault, Elizabeth is underage by modern law. Mentions of non-con, sexual assault.
Spoilers: CotBP only
Summary: Married life has a shaky start for the Norringtons.
Rating: R for discussion of sexual assualt
Word Count: 4727
Notes: Thank you to artic_fox for the amazing beta and to shahani for listening to me witter about this and getting me into the angst of the pairing to begin with.
Part 1
As he had been granted a months leave for his wedding, James could have slept late the next day, especially given he had not slept the night before. But when morning came and light flooded Elizabeth’s room he disentangled his hand, rose and went to dress for the day. She had given a soft protest and pulled the coverlet over her head as the room lightened, in a manner much more reminiscent of Elizabeth when cross, and that at least lightened his spirits.
He allowed her to sleep in, given her disturbed night, though he was startled by how late she did sleep. When she wandered downstairs, her dress was at least fit, though once again she was barefoot. Elizabeth seemed somewhat dismayed to be ushered into the dining room.
"Haven't you eaten?" she asked.
"I was waiting for you," he advised. It soon became clear this was pointless as he watched her push the food round the plate. He observed concerned, no wonder she was so thin.
She caught his gaze and ate a bite of egg but grimaced as she did so. She pushed the plate away, "my stomach hurts."
He thought on her vomiting in the night, on the possibility of her being afflicted with the tender digestion of a mother-to-be, and worryingly on the idea of her fading away before him. "Perhaps I can convince the cook to make something less trying for the digestion?" he asked. Subsequently one hour later, when Elizabeth had consumed the better part of a bowl of oaten porridge and a single slice of dry toast, James felt a foolish sense of triumph.
She excused herself and James found himself at a loss for what to do next. As he worked on the paperwork he had brought home with him, and he caught glimpses of her wandering the house throughout the afternoon. By evening, this ceased and he went in search of her, He found Elizabeth in the library, asleep on the desk, surrounded by books pulled from the shelves and discarded. She was asleep on a half written note of Will Turner, a smudge of ink on her pale cheek. Beside that lay a sheet of practised signatures, ‘Elizabeth Norrington’ written out again and again. That touched him slightly. He repeated her name to wake her, not wishing to startle her with his touch. She sat up and yawned before looking stubborn and gathering her note to herself as if he might have read it. "I'm going to write to Will," she said.
"I have no intention of limiting your correspondence," he informed her. "Come," he said, "lets go and tell Cook what you want for dinner." He offered her his arm and after a moment she took it, the letter to her friend still firmly grasped in her free hand.
Her nausea seemed to persist, but in allowing her to choose her own meals, it seemed to bother her less, and he hoped this would halt the weight loss that had plagued her. She could hardly spare it. They established a routine of sorts quickly - bidding each other goodnight and retiring to their separate rooms after which he would then join her when woken by her nightmares. To watch her as she slept or lay awake, either possibility as likely as the other. James found himself as liable to fall asleep about the house as she was, and it gave him concern for when his leave was over.
He offered to take her into town, to go shopping, or to the docks to see the ships or even riding. Nothing seemed to interest her, save books. The few engaging conversations they had revolved around the topic of books and one evening after a nightmare so bad she'd actually clung to him sobbing, he fetched a volume from his modest library, lit the lamp and read to her until finally she slept.
It was the day after that, he suggested she invite Mr. Turner for tea and she seemed her old self for a brief moment, and then suddenly an entirely new Elizabeth as his suggestion caused her to embrace him impulsively and brush her lips against his cheek in a soft kiss. Then she was off to pen an invite straight away, leaving him somewhat surprised but strangely hopeful.
Of course, it was an invite to have tea with the new couple, not just Elizabeth. Nothing else would be proper and perhaps it was that which caused Will Turner to delay his response for two whole days, while Elizabeth worried. Or perhaps her notes had not alleviated the blame Master Turner had taken upon himself in the matter of Elizabeth's abuse. Either way, James only resented the blacksmith's apprentice more as she fretted herself even worse while wondering if he would accept the invitation. But he did and so James would suffer his presence if it would lighten Elizabeth's spirits, as the prospect of it seemed to.
It was not to be however; the visit could only be described as an unmitigated disaster. There was an awkward silence on arrival, before they bickered over forms of address. James was pleased to see Will was as persistent with Mrs. Norrington as he had once been with Miss. Swann. Despite the fact that refused so much as to meet James' eye, every now and then, James would catch Turner shooting him a look filled with surprising venom before the boy managed to hide it or look away.
Elizabeth was visibly put out by his refusal to use her given name, and somehow that was a relief to James as well. Annoyance was an improvement on the vacant and vaguely traumatised expression, she wore much of the time. Annoyance, anger, or even childish pouting was preferable.
James watched as Elizabeth brushed Will’s arm once when they both reached for a biscuit they snatched their arms back, recoiling from each other. It caused one or the other knocked over the teapot in their haste. James called for a maid to deal with the scalding spilled liquid and sent them both to the garden. Like they were children, he thought, feeling vaguely guilty. But the fact remained that perhaps they should be children but they weren't. Not since they had encountered the pirates, he should have shielded them from.
He watched their awkward, stilted conversation. He could hear only fragments, words on the breeze, 'medallion’, ‘my father’, ‘moonlight’, ‘my fault’. Neither of them was even looking at the other, though Will persisted in looking back at James, disgusted. It occurred to him that Will likely knew more of what happened to Elizabeth than he did, if not all. How infuriating. Though perhaps knowing would be worse - he could not undo it as much as he wanted to. He turned back to them to see Elizabeth looking slightly lost as Will made his excuses.
"Captain Norrington." Will said to him. "Good day," before bowing in farewell and heading rapidly for the house. James had missed something in his reverie and Elizabeth sat stiffly until the sound of the front door opening and closing could be heard clearly echoing. Then she picked up her skirts and ran for the house herself. James struggled to give her space, but could not help himself. After only a moment he followed her in and found her in her room. She was lying face down on the bed; she was not crying, but her eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
"I won't let them take Will away," she said dully. "He's my friend. They can't change that." Without even reflecting on the inappropriateness of a friendship between a married woman and a single man, James could see that they had changed it. But before he could think of anything to say to her comment, she continued. "I remember every time I see him," her voice had dropped to a whisper. "They made him watch."
James felt sick; it was becoming a familiar sensation. He could curse Will Turner all over again, but at the same time still feel a scrap of sympathy for him.
"He fought them," Elizabeth told him, "and then he was knocked out." This was as much as she'd said about the incident since it happened. "It seemed a good idea," she said. “If he could fight them then so could I but it was different for him.”
Unthinking, James brushed one finger along her hairline, remembering the bruise that had been there, the bruises on her body he understood. He wished her didn’t but the bruise there, on her cheek, her split lip? Not mindless violence perhaps, he should have known she had struggled. “You had quite the blow to the head yourself,” he commented, asking the question indirectly. It seemed cruel somehow and yet not if they had knocked her out - she would have experienced less of it. Elizabeth nodded hesitantly and turned away again as he rubbed one hand gently over her back. It was only later, after he'd resorted to giving her a measure of whisky and persuading her to go to bed early that he realised; that had been the first time in their brief marriage she had not flinched away from a touch more substantive than a hand hold not initiated by herself.
Of course he had no idea if it meant anything or if she was merely distracted. Later that night he wondered if the whisky had been a mistake, when trying to rouse her (from a particularly bad nightmare,) proved difficult, but surely not?. It had been a single measure only. He began to doubt that it did mean anything, when finally she woke; she did so by spitting words at him vehemently.
"Don't look at me!" Then she seemed startled as if expecting someone else. He knew who now. She lay and shivered, and James did not dare get closer to her, for fear of making things worse.
"Elizabeth," he said urgently. "It's alright. You are safe." She reached for his hand and he held tight to hers. She was trembling again. "Do you wish to talk about it?" Perhaps it would help to get it out. "The nightmare at least?"
"No," she said flatly, and she sounded more annoyed than anything. "You never even come to me until after they've started anyway, and then it's too late." He absorbed that criticism, feeling just a little stunned. It was true she never had nightmares once he was here. He knew because he slept little, if at all, after her sleep disturbances woke him. He just watched her, and he'd never thought that his presence earlier might help. She scrubbed at her face with one hand and he noticed she was wearing that nightshirt again. His nightshirt. She must have brought it with her from the Governor's household.
"I thought they simply passed," he said, brushing one finger over the wristband of the cuff.
She lifted her head for a moment and he wished, as he had on many occasions since they married, that he knew what she was thinking. "No," she said almost reluctantly, "It's you. You make me feel safe." He had no words for that, and as heartening as such a statement was, it silenced him. "I prayed for you to find us," she whispered, "and then you did." He moved closer, not touching her and stared at her in the darkness. There was a lamp lit, but it was flickering. He could just make out the dark pools of her eyes and then the oil ran out and the darkness was complete. He threaded his fingers with hers.
"Would that it have been sooner," he said. There is no response, and shortly after her breathing evened out and he knew she was asleep. He took her at her word that the nightmares would not return with him there and allowed himself to sleep.
When he awoke, chilled on top of the covers, she was awake and staring at him fascinated. "You snore," she announced, "I had to keep jabbing you to make you stop." She did not seem bothered by this, more intrigued.
"I shall endeavour to control it," he said though he'd never been told he snored before. Elizabeth slid out of bed and pulled a night robe over the sleeping shirt. She seemed uncertain and was trying to hide it. He suspected that she was trying very hard to pretend this was a normal way for a married couple to behave.
"I need to ask your opinion on something," she said seriously. She opened the wardrobe and pulled out two gowns. "Which is nicer?" They both seemed lovely to him though he wondered where they had come from - likely her father who had not so much as visited since they wed, but instead had sent daily gifts. James had told himself the Governor merely wanted to give them a chance to settle into married life on their own. It had only been a week. Perhaps her father would visit after the executions or at the very least they would see him there.
"Is there an event I'm unaware of?" he asked as she held a green gown up to herself in the mirror.
"For the hanging!" she said at once. Then her voice faltered, "and I should wear them while they still fit." The simple mention of that particular topic had her dropping the gown and fleeing, and the sound of her illness carried. James was by no means an expert on such matters, but as much as he had hoped to find some other explanation for the disruption to Elizabeth's womanly cycle that she had reluctantly confided in him about, it seemed unlikely with the additional symptoms she displayed. He had been prepared for the possibility of this and yet wished it that he had had it in his power to spare her of it.
When Elizabeth came back he'd hung the gown back up. Her mind had wandered again.
"You were just in time you know," she told him, utterly uninterested in the clothes and crawling back into bed. He had hoped perhaps this had been a sign she meant to rise at a reasonable hour but her words drove the consideration of her fitful hours from his mind, instead he found himself staring.
He thought of how he had found her on the Pearl, naked and silent, bruised and bleeding. Even now, she thought the assault upon her had gotten her with child. How on earth had he been in time? He might have even blurted out the question had she not continued.
She carried on with her explanation, not noticing or ignoring his reaction. "You came when they were on the island." Which he had, it had made taking the Pearl somewhat easier. Elizabeth had been on the ship, and the pirates had taken young Turner ashore. "When they got back they were going to . . . they were going to make us . . . so they could watch. They'd already tried." Her voice was very quiet. "They held me down for him and when he wouldn't . . . they beat me to teach him a lesson, then had him whipped."
James had seen the welts on the back of Elizabeth's thighs and the marks of the cat on Will's back, but as much as they had horrified him he could never have guessed at the events that preceded them.
She was not done though. "When they turned me over to beat me," she said, "they were doing something to him. I know they were all laughing and he was trying not to make a noise." She folded her arms and glanced down at her chest. "They said I had so little I might as well be a boy, and Will could have me like a boy if he wanted." She closed her eyes as her lower lip trembled and James struggled for anything to say for her. Small wonder William Turner could barely look at her. It was enough for James to wish she wasn't talking about it. He would never tell her that; it was undoubtedly better that she not keep it bottled up even if he could wish it. But then if she could endure it, he could manage hearing about it. He could not imagine what the boy felt having witnessed it.
"I am glad I could prevent that," he told her awkwardly, "though it will continue to be my biggest regret that I could not reach you sooner."
She looked at him, eyes wide, another of those looks he could not read and that he was convinced indicated his lack of understanding in some matter. She seemed to consider his words for a long time. "When I dream," she said, "and you aren't here," she nodded at what had become his side of the bed, "we’re just left there, you don’t reach us at all." And that, with her words the previous evening, settled that.
However, the first night James went to Elizabeth's bed before her nightmares started was an absolute exercise in awkwardness. The fact that she wanted him there did not alleviate her nerves about the matter and when he entered the room she looked startled, despite the fact that he'd knocked. She put down the book she was reading and turned her back on him, lowering the light from the lamp.
He pulled back the covers and he saw her shoulders tremble. He nodded to himself, remade the covers and as he did when he came after the nightmares, and lay atop them. Elizabeth immediately got out of bed and he wondered if perhaps this was too soon, nightmares or not. However, she returned with a blanket for him and a somewhat shame faced whisper. "Sorry."
He took the blanket and waited for her to climb back into bed. "This is more than adequate," he assured her. She fussed before climbing into bed, clearly debating the removal of the robe she wore over her night shirt. But eventually she seemed to settle, and once she was safe under the covers she turned to face him this time. She seemed to be thinking on something. The last thing James had expected was a return to the conversation of this morning and certainly not to be asked the next question.
"Do you think I'm boyish?" She was watching him in the dark and he wondered at the wisdom of admitting his attraction to her at this particular junction. He would not lie to her nor, and this was more important, allow the pirate’s words to become truth in her eyes.
"No," he said, "I don't think that because you aren't, Elizabeth. You're merely slender; it's quite becoming, truly it is." In truth she was too slender, having had little enough weight on her before the shock had caused her loss of appetite. But matters had improved and the nausea inflicted on mothers-to-be, if that was what it was, well that did not last. "You're very lovely," he told her gently. "They only meant to hurt you with their words."
Elizabeth watched him uncertainly; there was an air of disbelief in her face from what he could make out in the dark. She then seemed to accept that; she had, after all, asked. "Good," she said. She moved closer under the covers and clumsily kissed him. He froze - he had not expected it, and furthermore did not think she was ready for this. Yet ignoring her overtures would not help. He kissed her back, carefully and softly. Even that was too much; she pulled away suddenly shy and uncertain. He almost apologised but she did not seem unhappy. He waited to see if she would say anything and he did not want to draw attention to it any more than was necessary.
"Good night, Elizabeth," he said, fluffing his pillow and she did the same. He watched her drift into sleep and she did not wake that night; did not dream. He might, if he could be so bold, count that as the second thing he had been able to do for her since they wed.
The next day when he woke, he felt confident enough to persuade her out of bed by nine o’clock. A time, he was well aware, by which he would normally have been at the fort for at least an hour. Startled and grumpy at this sudden insistence, she scowled at him over breakfast but he refused to feel unreasonable about this. She had slept well enough and it would do her good to have some return to normality. A routine. She pushed away the porridge and announced, "I have a headache." He felt very badly about it but Elizabeth was used to having her way and he could not help but suspect this might be a ploy to return to bed.
"Some fresh air would be just the thing for that," he suggested mildly. She looked unconvinced and declined his company for a turn round the garden. But she did at least head outside, and when he glanced to check on her she was quite determinedly shredding some rather lovely roses, leaving a trail of scattered petals wherever she went. She stomped around, looking rather mutinous, and that had not been the effect he had intended at all.
When she sat down with him for supper, her gown was grass stained, her shoes gone, her cheeks sunburnt and her hair a mess. He made the mistake of holding dinner so she could change and when she returned in the green gown he was surprised. It was not dinner conversation, but he asked anyway, "I thought you meant to wear that at the hanging?"
"I changed my mind," she told him, her tone sharp, her eyes on her food. "The other is fancier." This seemed a strange requirement for the event they were discussing, though the eyes of society would be on her. That he did not look forward to.
"It laces tighter as well," she informed him. "I'm going to be beautiful and slender and married and happy and enjoy myself." He cannot argue with that sentiment, but she continues still. "And they're all going to die." That gives him pause but that this pleased her is only natural he reminded himself. He tried not to be perturbed by the outright anticipation she displayed. Attending the hangings would help. He was sure of it.
Whatever else the day in the garden had done, her appetite seemed markedly improved again. She ate every bit of dinner, despite having not ordered it herself. James felt relieved - if she were with child, she would need the nourishment - a difficult confinement would not improve her health. She excused herself with the intent of writing at note to her father. At this point, a sense of morbid curiosity prompted him to take in some night air and inspect the damage that had been done in the small garden. He nearly tripped over the abandoned shoes, and thought perhaps the maid would be less than pleased with the muddy footprints left on the carpet near the door. However, in the moonlight, the garden looked merely rumpled somewhat. The flowers would bloom again and he could only hope that perhaps a similar future could be found for Elizabeth.
It was perhaps this optimistic set to his thoughts that made the events of the later evening such a disappointment. He had known without question that Elizabeth had been in his study. She moved things; the maids did not. But he did not question it - she may have wanted ink or paper or a book he currently had, for there was no surer way of attracting her interest than to hold onto a volume for more than a day or two. It was as if the empty slot on the shelf drew her attention and then nothing would do but that particular tome.
He changed for bed and knocked as always on Elizabeth's door before entering. She was sitting on the bed, dressed in a nightgown not the shirt, and if it had not been for her demeanour he would have assumed the shirt was being washed. She was sitting crossed legged and humming to herself, rocking slightly to the tune. She turned to look at him, and at the sight of him smiled. There was an unfamiliar brightness to her eyes. Her cheeks were flush from more than sunburn and there was something else about her nervous smile; he did not like it. She stared at him unfocused and patted the bed next to her. He'd been forgiven for attempting to schedule her day, it seemed. But what had brought this behaviour on? The nightgown she wore was the same one from their wedding night and he wondered if she had been given yet more 'advice' from the maid. Perhaps he would have to dismiss the girl; Elizabeth did not need that sort of advice, though it seemed unusual that she would take it. Cautiously he sat next to her and she reached for his hand, trembling slightly.
That was when he smelt it. Elizabeth reeked of brandy, and when she leant forward to kiss him, he drew back. She looked confused, and then tried again, her lips meeting his. He did not respond, but could feel her shake as she pressed herself against him. The brandy had dulled her sense enough so that she ignored her own shivering and reached for him. He caught her hand firmly and prised her away from him.
"Elizabeth," he said, lost for any other words. He could taste the brandy from her kiss. "Stop it." He tried desperately not to display any anger at this behaviour and rather thinks he's failing. It's the anger that stops her.
"Why?" she said hurt and angry all at once, "I want to be your wife." Her earlier words come back to him. It is something the pirates have robbed her of for now, but if she thinks she can force herself to normality simply to show men who are dying for their crimes anyway. . . he will not have it. He does not know how to point out that under the circumstances they will perhaps paying less attention to Elizabeth than she thinks they might.
"You are my wife," he says curtly. "But you are also drunk." He pulls away from her and stands. "I will have nothing from you that requires the amount of brandy you have consumed in advance." James pulls back the covers for her, and after a long moment where he believes she will ignore him, she pulls them over herself. He goes for the door.
"Where are you going?" she said plaintively.
"I have a matter to attend to," he said, his control over his voice limited. "Try to sleep. I'll be back shortly."
There is a cupboard with a lock in his study, but in the end he tips the decanted brandy and whisky out of the window. He does not need them; he has a decently vintaged bottle of wine that he does lock away. He wonders what they have in the kitchen but decides it’s unlikely that she would pursue that; removing the immediate temptation shall suffice. It is not her fault, he reminds himself. It is not him that she requires alcohol to endure, but the act that has been poisoned in her mind. But when she had pressed herself against him, he had wanted her and he fears that it would take so little to make his self-control slip. Elizabeth was the one who was hurt. It was his responsibility to see no further hurt happened to her.
When he returns to their bedroom, she is not asleep but is facing the opposite wall in the dark. She's turned the covers down for him and although James thinks it unwise, he slips between them. He cannot bring himself to reject her twice and this is an offer he can take without guilt. Elizabeth sleeps easily, the brandy having a soporific effect. He lies awake for what seems like an age. This was a complication he had not anticipated. He's willing to allow her time to heal, but how does he correct her apparent lack of patience with herself?
Author: snowbryneich
Pairing: Norribeth, with hints of Will/Elizabeth
Genre(s): Drama/Romance/Hurt!Comfort
Warning: Utterly AU, marriage fic, mentions of sexual assault, Elizabeth is underage by modern law. Mentions of non-con, sexual assault.
Spoilers: CotBP only
Summary: Married life has a shaky start for the Norringtons.
Rating: R for discussion of sexual assualt
Word Count: 4727
Notes: Thank you to artic_fox for the amazing beta and to shahani for listening to me witter about this and getting me into the angst of the pairing to begin with.
Part 1
As he had been granted a months leave for his wedding, James could have slept late the next day, especially given he had not slept the night before. But when morning came and light flooded Elizabeth’s room he disentangled his hand, rose and went to dress for the day. She had given a soft protest and pulled the coverlet over her head as the room lightened, in a manner much more reminiscent of Elizabeth when cross, and that at least lightened his spirits.
He allowed her to sleep in, given her disturbed night, though he was startled by how late she did sleep. When she wandered downstairs, her dress was at least fit, though once again she was barefoot. Elizabeth seemed somewhat dismayed to be ushered into the dining room.
"Haven't you eaten?" she asked.
"I was waiting for you," he advised. It soon became clear this was pointless as he watched her push the food round the plate. He observed concerned, no wonder she was so thin.
She caught his gaze and ate a bite of egg but grimaced as she did so. She pushed the plate away, "my stomach hurts."
He thought on her vomiting in the night, on the possibility of her being afflicted with the tender digestion of a mother-to-be, and worryingly on the idea of her fading away before him. "Perhaps I can convince the cook to make something less trying for the digestion?" he asked. Subsequently one hour later, when Elizabeth had consumed the better part of a bowl of oaten porridge and a single slice of dry toast, James felt a foolish sense of triumph.
She excused herself and James found himself at a loss for what to do next. As he worked on the paperwork he had brought home with him, and he caught glimpses of her wandering the house throughout the afternoon. By evening, this ceased and he went in search of her, He found Elizabeth in the library, asleep on the desk, surrounded by books pulled from the shelves and discarded. She was asleep on a half written note of Will Turner, a smudge of ink on her pale cheek. Beside that lay a sheet of practised signatures, ‘Elizabeth Norrington’ written out again and again. That touched him slightly. He repeated her name to wake her, not wishing to startle her with his touch. She sat up and yawned before looking stubborn and gathering her note to herself as if he might have read it. "I'm going to write to Will," she said.
"I have no intention of limiting your correspondence," he informed her. "Come," he said, "lets go and tell Cook what you want for dinner." He offered her his arm and after a moment she took it, the letter to her friend still firmly grasped in her free hand.
Her nausea seemed to persist, but in allowing her to choose her own meals, it seemed to bother her less, and he hoped this would halt the weight loss that had plagued her. She could hardly spare it. They established a routine of sorts quickly - bidding each other goodnight and retiring to their separate rooms after which he would then join her when woken by her nightmares. To watch her as she slept or lay awake, either possibility as likely as the other. James found himself as liable to fall asleep about the house as she was, and it gave him concern for when his leave was over.
He offered to take her into town, to go shopping, or to the docks to see the ships or even riding. Nothing seemed to interest her, save books. The few engaging conversations they had revolved around the topic of books and one evening after a nightmare so bad she'd actually clung to him sobbing, he fetched a volume from his modest library, lit the lamp and read to her until finally she slept.
It was the day after that, he suggested she invite Mr. Turner for tea and she seemed her old self for a brief moment, and then suddenly an entirely new Elizabeth as his suggestion caused her to embrace him impulsively and brush her lips against his cheek in a soft kiss. Then she was off to pen an invite straight away, leaving him somewhat surprised but strangely hopeful.
Of course, it was an invite to have tea with the new couple, not just Elizabeth. Nothing else would be proper and perhaps it was that which caused Will Turner to delay his response for two whole days, while Elizabeth worried. Or perhaps her notes had not alleviated the blame Master Turner had taken upon himself in the matter of Elizabeth's abuse. Either way, James only resented the blacksmith's apprentice more as she fretted herself even worse while wondering if he would accept the invitation. But he did and so James would suffer his presence if it would lighten Elizabeth's spirits, as the prospect of it seemed to.
It was not to be however; the visit could only be described as an unmitigated disaster. There was an awkward silence on arrival, before they bickered over forms of address. James was pleased to see Will was as persistent with Mrs. Norrington as he had once been with Miss. Swann. Despite the fact that refused so much as to meet James' eye, every now and then, James would catch Turner shooting him a look filled with surprising venom before the boy managed to hide it or look away.
Elizabeth was visibly put out by his refusal to use her given name, and somehow that was a relief to James as well. Annoyance was an improvement on the vacant and vaguely traumatised expression, she wore much of the time. Annoyance, anger, or even childish pouting was preferable.
James watched as Elizabeth brushed Will’s arm once when they both reached for a biscuit they snatched their arms back, recoiling from each other. It caused one or the other knocked over the teapot in their haste. James called for a maid to deal with the scalding spilled liquid and sent them both to the garden. Like they were children, he thought, feeling vaguely guilty. But the fact remained that perhaps they should be children but they weren't. Not since they had encountered the pirates, he should have shielded them from.
He watched their awkward, stilted conversation. He could hear only fragments, words on the breeze, 'medallion’, ‘my father’, ‘moonlight’, ‘my fault’. Neither of them was even looking at the other, though Will persisted in looking back at James, disgusted. It occurred to him that Will likely knew more of what happened to Elizabeth than he did, if not all. How infuriating. Though perhaps knowing would be worse - he could not undo it as much as he wanted to. He turned back to them to see Elizabeth looking slightly lost as Will made his excuses.
"Captain Norrington." Will said to him. "Good day," before bowing in farewell and heading rapidly for the house. James had missed something in his reverie and Elizabeth sat stiffly until the sound of the front door opening and closing could be heard clearly echoing. Then she picked up her skirts and ran for the house herself. James struggled to give her space, but could not help himself. After only a moment he followed her in and found her in her room. She was lying face down on the bed; she was not crying, but her eyes glimmered with unshed tears.
"I won't let them take Will away," she said dully. "He's my friend. They can't change that." Without even reflecting on the inappropriateness of a friendship between a married woman and a single man, James could see that they had changed it. But before he could think of anything to say to her comment, she continued. "I remember every time I see him," her voice had dropped to a whisper. "They made him watch."
James felt sick; it was becoming a familiar sensation. He could curse Will Turner all over again, but at the same time still feel a scrap of sympathy for him.
"He fought them," Elizabeth told him, "and then he was knocked out." This was as much as she'd said about the incident since it happened. "It seemed a good idea," she said. “If he could fight them then so could I but it was different for him.”
Unthinking, James brushed one finger along her hairline, remembering the bruise that had been there, the bruises on her body he understood. He wished her didn’t but the bruise there, on her cheek, her split lip? Not mindless violence perhaps, he should have known she had struggled. “You had quite the blow to the head yourself,” he commented, asking the question indirectly. It seemed cruel somehow and yet not if they had knocked her out - she would have experienced less of it. Elizabeth nodded hesitantly and turned away again as he rubbed one hand gently over her back. It was only later, after he'd resorted to giving her a measure of whisky and persuading her to go to bed early that he realised; that had been the first time in their brief marriage she had not flinched away from a touch more substantive than a hand hold not initiated by herself.
Of course he had no idea if it meant anything or if she was merely distracted. Later that night he wondered if the whisky had been a mistake, when trying to rouse her (from a particularly bad nightmare,) proved difficult, but surely not?. It had been a single measure only. He began to doubt that it did mean anything, when finally she woke; she did so by spitting words at him vehemently.
"Don't look at me!" Then she seemed startled as if expecting someone else. He knew who now. She lay and shivered, and James did not dare get closer to her, for fear of making things worse.
"Elizabeth," he said urgently. "It's alright. You are safe." She reached for his hand and he held tight to hers. She was trembling again. "Do you wish to talk about it?" Perhaps it would help to get it out. "The nightmare at least?"
"No," she said flatly, and she sounded more annoyed than anything. "You never even come to me until after they've started anyway, and then it's too late." He absorbed that criticism, feeling just a little stunned. It was true she never had nightmares once he was here. He knew because he slept little, if at all, after her sleep disturbances woke him. He just watched her, and he'd never thought that his presence earlier might help. She scrubbed at her face with one hand and he noticed she was wearing that nightshirt again. His nightshirt. She must have brought it with her from the Governor's household.
"I thought they simply passed," he said, brushing one finger over the wristband of the cuff.
She lifted her head for a moment and he wished, as he had on many occasions since they married, that he knew what she was thinking. "No," she said almost reluctantly, "It's you. You make me feel safe." He had no words for that, and as heartening as such a statement was, it silenced him. "I prayed for you to find us," she whispered, "and then you did." He moved closer, not touching her and stared at her in the darkness. There was a lamp lit, but it was flickering. He could just make out the dark pools of her eyes and then the oil ran out and the darkness was complete. He threaded his fingers with hers.
"Would that it have been sooner," he said. There is no response, and shortly after her breathing evened out and he knew she was asleep. He took her at her word that the nightmares would not return with him there and allowed himself to sleep.
When he awoke, chilled on top of the covers, she was awake and staring at him fascinated. "You snore," she announced, "I had to keep jabbing you to make you stop." She did not seem bothered by this, more intrigued.
"I shall endeavour to control it," he said though he'd never been told he snored before. Elizabeth slid out of bed and pulled a night robe over the sleeping shirt. She seemed uncertain and was trying to hide it. He suspected that she was trying very hard to pretend this was a normal way for a married couple to behave.
"I need to ask your opinion on something," she said seriously. She opened the wardrobe and pulled out two gowns. "Which is nicer?" They both seemed lovely to him though he wondered where they had come from - likely her father who had not so much as visited since they wed, but instead had sent daily gifts. James had told himself the Governor merely wanted to give them a chance to settle into married life on their own. It had only been a week. Perhaps her father would visit after the executions or at the very least they would see him there.
"Is there an event I'm unaware of?" he asked as she held a green gown up to herself in the mirror.
"For the hanging!" she said at once. Then her voice faltered, "and I should wear them while they still fit." The simple mention of that particular topic had her dropping the gown and fleeing, and the sound of her illness carried. James was by no means an expert on such matters, but as much as he had hoped to find some other explanation for the disruption to Elizabeth's womanly cycle that she had reluctantly confided in him about, it seemed unlikely with the additional symptoms she displayed. He had been prepared for the possibility of this and yet wished it that he had had it in his power to spare her of it.
When Elizabeth came back he'd hung the gown back up. Her mind had wandered again.
"You were just in time you know," she told him, utterly uninterested in the clothes and crawling back into bed. He had hoped perhaps this had been a sign she meant to rise at a reasonable hour but her words drove the consideration of her fitful hours from his mind, instead he found himself staring.
He thought of how he had found her on the Pearl, naked and silent, bruised and bleeding. Even now, she thought the assault upon her had gotten her with child. How on earth had he been in time? He might have even blurted out the question had she not continued.
She carried on with her explanation, not noticing or ignoring his reaction. "You came when they were on the island." Which he had, it had made taking the Pearl somewhat easier. Elizabeth had been on the ship, and the pirates had taken young Turner ashore. "When they got back they were going to . . . they were going to make us . . . so they could watch. They'd already tried." Her voice was very quiet. "They held me down for him and when he wouldn't . . . they beat me to teach him a lesson, then had him whipped."
James had seen the welts on the back of Elizabeth's thighs and the marks of the cat on Will's back, but as much as they had horrified him he could never have guessed at the events that preceded them.
She was not done though. "When they turned me over to beat me," she said, "they were doing something to him. I know they were all laughing and he was trying not to make a noise." She folded her arms and glanced down at her chest. "They said I had so little I might as well be a boy, and Will could have me like a boy if he wanted." She closed her eyes as her lower lip trembled and James struggled for anything to say for her. Small wonder William Turner could barely look at her. It was enough for James to wish she wasn't talking about it. He would never tell her that; it was undoubtedly better that she not keep it bottled up even if he could wish it. But then if she could endure it, he could manage hearing about it. He could not imagine what the boy felt having witnessed it.
"I am glad I could prevent that," he told her awkwardly, "though it will continue to be my biggest regret that I could not reach you sooner."
She looked at him, eyes wide, another of those looks he could not read and that he was convinced indicated his lack of understanding in some matter. She seemed to consider his words for a long time. "When I dream," she said, "and you aren't here," she nodded at what had become his side of the bed, "we’re just left there, you don’t reach us at all." And that, with her words the previous evening, settled that.
However, the first night James went to Elizabeth's bed before her nightmares started was an absolute exercise in awkwardness. The fact that she wanted him there did not alleviate her nerves about the matter and when he entered the room she looked startled, despite the fact that he'd knocked. She put down the book she was reading and turned her back on him, lowering the light from the lamp.
He pulled back the covers and he saw her shoulders tremble. He nodded to himself, remade the covers and as he did when he came after the nightmares, and lay atop them. Elizabeth immediately got out of bed and he wondered if perhaps this was too soon, nightmares or not. However, she returned with a blanket for him and a somewhat shame faced whisper. "Sorry."
He took the blanket and waited for her to climb back into bed. "This is more than adequate," he assured her. She fussed before climbing into bed, clearly debating the removal of the robe she wore over her night shirt. But eventually she seemed to settle, and once she was safe under the covers she turned to face him this time. She seemed to be thinking on something. The last thing James had expected was a return to the conversation of this morning and certainly not to be asked the next question.
"Do you think I'm boyish?" She was watching him in the dark and he wondered at the wisdom of admitting his attraction to her at this particular junction. He would not lie to her nor, and this was more important, allow the pirate’s words to become truth in her eyes.
"No," he said, "I don't think that because you aren't, Elizabeth. You're merely slender; it's quite becoming, truly it is." In truth she was too slender, having had little enough weight on her before the shock had caused her loss of appetite. But matters had improved and the nausea inflicted on mothers-to-be, if that was what it was, well that did not last. "You're very lovely," he told her gently. "They only meant to hurt you with their words."
Elizabeth watched him uncertainly; there was an air of disbelief in her face from what he could make out in the dark. She then seemed to accept that; she had, after all, asked. "Good," she said. She moved closer under the covers and clumsily kissed him. He froze - he had not expected it, and furthermore did not think she was ready for this. Yet ignoring her overtures would not help. He kissed her back, carefully and softly. Even that was too much; she pulled away suddenly shy and uncertain. He almost apologised but she did not seem unhappy. He waited to see if she would say anything and he did not want to draw attention to it any more than was necessary.
"Good night, Elizabeth," he said, fluffing his pillow and she did the same. He watched her drift into sleep and she did not wake that night; did not dream. He might, if he could be so bold, count that as the second thing he had been able to do for her since they wed.
The next day when he woke, he felt confident enough to persuade her out of bed by nine o’clock. A time, he was well aware, by which he would normally have been at the fort for at least an hour. Startled and grumpy at this sudden insistence, she scowled at him over breakfast but he refused to feel unreasonable about this. She had slept well enough and it would do her good to have some return to normality. A routine. She pushed away the porridge and announced, "I have a headache." He felt very badly about it but Elizabeth was used to having her way and he could not help but suspect this might be a ploy to return to bed.
"Some fresh air would be just the thing for that," he suggested mildly. She looked unconvinced and declined his company for a turn round the garden. But she did at least head outside, and when he glanced to check on her she was quite determinedly shredding some rather lovely roses, leaving a trail of scattered petals wherever she went. She stomped around, looking rather mutinous, and that had not been the effect he had intended at all.
When she sat down with him for supper, her gown was grass stained, her shoes gone, her cheeks sunburnt and her hair a mess. He made the mistake of holding dinner so she could change and when she returned in the green gown he was surprised. It was not dinner conversation, but he asked anyway, "I thought you meant to wear that at the hanging?"
"I changed my mind," she told him, her tone sharp, her eyes on her food. "The other is fancier." This seemed a strange requirement for the event they were discussing, though the eyes of society would be on her. That he did not look forward to.
"It laces tighter as well," she informed him. "I'm going to be beautiful and slender and married and happy and enjoy myself." He cannot argue with that sentiment, but she continues still. "And they're all going to die." That gives him pause but that this pleased her is only natural he reminded himself. He tried not to be perturbed by the outright anticipation she displayed. Attending the hangings would help. He was sure of it.
Whatever else the day in the garden had done, her appetite seemed markedly improved again. She ate every bit of dinner, despite having not ordered it herself. James felt relieved - if she were with child, she would need the nourishment - a difficult confinement would not improve her health. She excused herself with the intent of writing at note to her father. At this point, a sense of morbid curiosity prompted him to take in some night air and inspect the damage that had been done in the small garden. He nearly tripped over the abandoned shoes, and thought perhaps the maid would be less than pleased with the muddy footprints left on the carpet near the door. However, in the moonlight, the garden looked merely rumpled somewhat. The flowers would bloom again and he could only hope that perhaps a similar future could be found for Elizabeth.
It was perhaps this optimistic set to his thoughts that made the events of the later evening such a disappointment. He had known without question that Elizabeth had been in his study. She moved things; the maids did not. But he did not question it - she may have wanted ink or paper or a book he currently had, for there was no surer way of attracting her interest than to hold onto a volume for more than a day or two. It was as if the empty slot on the shelf drew her attention and then nothing would do but that particular tome.
He changed for bed and knocked as always on Elizabeth's door before entering. She was sitting on the bed, dressed in a nightgown not the shirt, and if it had not been for her demeanour he would have assumed the shirt was being washed. She was sitting crossed legged and humming to herself, rocking slightly to the tune. She turned to look at him, and at the sight of him smiled. There was an unfamiliar brightness to her eyes. Her cheeks were flush from more than sunburn and there was something else about her nervous smile; he did not like it. She stared at him unfocused and patted the bed next to her. He'd been forgiven for attempting to schedule her day, it seemed. But what had brought this behaviour on? The nightgown she wore was the same one from their wedding night and he wondered if she had been given yet more 'advice' from the maid. Perhaps he would have to dismiss the girl; Elizabeth did not need that sort of advice, though it seemed unusual that she would take it. Cautiously he sat next to her and she reached for his hand, trembling slightly.
That was when he smelt it. Elizabeth reeked of brandy, and when she leant forward to kiss him, he drew back. She looked confused, and then tried again, her lips meeting his. He did not respond, but could feel her shake as she pressed herself against him. The brandy had dulled her sense enough so that she ignored her own shivering and reached for him. He caught her hand firmly and prised her away from him.
"Elizabeth," he said, lost for any other words. He could taste the brandy from her kiss. "Stop it." He tried desperately not to display any anger at this behaviour and rather thinks he's failing. It's the anger that stops her.
"Why?" she said hurt and angry all at once, "I want to be your wife." Her earlier words come back to him. It is something the pirates have robbed her of for now, but if she thinks she can force herself to normality simply to show men who are dying for their crimes anyway. . . he will not have it. He does not know how to point out that under the circumstances they will perhaps paying less attention to Elizabeth than she thinks they might.
"You are my wife," he says curtly. "But you are also drunk." He pulls away from her and stands. "I will have nothing from you that requires the amount of brandy you have consumed in advance." James pulls back the covers for her, and after a long moment where he believes she will ignore him, she pulls them over herself. He goes for the door.
"Where are you going?" she said plaintively.
"I have a matter to attend to," he said, his control over his voice limited. "Try to sleep. I'll be back shortly."
There is a cupboard with a lock in his study, but in the end he tips the decanted brandy and whisky out of the window. He does not need them; he has a decently vintaged bottle of wine that he does lock away. He wonders what they have in the kitchen but decides it’s unlikely that she would pursue that; removing the immediate temptation shall suffice. It is not her fault, he reminds himself. It is not him that she requires alcohol to endure, but the act that has been poisoned in her mind. But when she had pressed herself against him, he had wanted her and he fears that it would take so little to make his self-control slip. Elizabeth was the one who was hurt. It was his responsibility to see no further hurt happened to her.
When he returns to their bedroom, she is not asleep but is facing the opposite wall in the dark. She's turned the covers down for him and although James thinks it unwise, he slips between them. He cannot bring himself to reject her twice and this is an offer he can take without guilt. Elizabeth sleeps easily, the brandy having a soporific effect. He lies awake for what seems like an age. This was a complication he had not anticipated. He's willing to allow her time to heal, but how does he correct her apparent lack of patience with herself?