A/N: This is just something I started to get me past my writer's block on my other story The Smuggler and the Scoundrel. (Which I am still working on!) It may grow, as I tend to get blocked frequently. This is pure romantic fluff. Why? Because it's fun. And it's for all my fellow RN junkies out there...I know you exist!

Disclaimer: POTC and all it entails belongs to the Mouse, like most everything else nowadays. The Clarke family is mine.

As Propriety Demands

Propriety: The quality or state of being proper; suitableness to an acknowledged or correct standard or rule; consonance with established principles, rules, or customs; fitness; appropriateness; as, propriety of behavior, language, manners, etc. "The rule of propriety."

It is a strange fact that the smallest and simplest of things often instill the greatest amount of activity. It was amusing and quite fascinating that something as commonplace as a bit of paper could cause such histrionic excitement. Of course, were one to consider the purpose of this particular piece of paper, the gleefully agitated atmosphere that had reigned over the Clarke household for the past fortnight was at once easily explained—fortunately, it was just as easily dealt with.

"Becca! Becca! Becca, whatever are you doing, this is no time for literature!"

With a mild blink as she took her gaze from the pages of her book, Rebecca minutely adjusted her spectacles and spared a glance at her younger sister.

"It is always time for literature, Marianne," she said.

Marianne glared, her pink, heart-shaped mouth set in a determined scowl. "Nonsense, Becca!" she exclaimed. "You cannot be prepared already!"

There was a silence while the sisters regarded each other; certainly Rebecca's expression suggested that yes, she could be prepared already, and she was, thank you.

"But Becca! Why that dress?" Marianne asked once this fact had dawned on her.

Rebecca ran a hand over the skirt of her pale blue dress; it may not be new, but it was her favorite and the one that came closest to flattering her far-less-than-ample bosom. "I find no fault with it," she replied, returning to her book.

Marianne plunged on, undaunted. "And your hair—"

"Needs God's help, my dear, not yours," Rebecca interjected, turning a page, the very picture of tranquility. "Besides, who on earth is going to look at me when you are present?"

She cast an amused eye at Marianne, resplendent in a cream-colored dress that so wonderfully emphasized her smooth, auburn hair and guileless, brown eyes. Nineteen and beautiful with a substantial dowry, her sister was perfect marriage material.

"Don't be like that," Marianne scolded gently, joining her on the chaise. She took her hand and spoke in a giddy voice that was almost a giggle. "There are sure to be Navy men present; Lieutenants and Captains and even the Commodore, or so I've heard!"

"Him as well? Poor man," Rebecca said. "I'm certain he would rather not attend. Granted, I've never seen him, but what Miss Elizabeth sees in a blacksmith I'll never know!"

"Oh, Becca, didn't you listen at all? He rescued her from pirates! And she loves him!"

"Be that as it may, to humiliate the Commodore publicly—in front of his men, no less!—was a terribly crass thing to do."

"For all the books you read, Becca, you have no sense of romance! Mr. Turner hastened to her rescue the very next morning, and I hear he fought those barbarians single-handedly!"

"Marianne, please. I've heard this story often enough; it was the talk of the town when we arrived, if you recall, and we are sure to hear it retold tonight."

Marianne fell silent, and Rebecca turned another page. For all that her sister was lovely and kind, she was flighty and apt to accept the exaggerations of gossip with childlike belief. Not that Rebecca didn't hearken to gossip—quite the contrary; gossip, however extreme and scathing, was based on at least a grain of truth, but some of the rumors surrounding Miss Swann's engagement to the blacksmith, Will Turner, were too far-fetched for even that. Undead pirates, for instance? Utter nonsense.

"Still," Marianne continued. "Navy men! I'm sure there's a Lieutenant who'll take a fancy to you."

Rebecca snapped her book shut. "We've been through this, Marianne," she said softly. It was all she needed to say.

"Come along, then," Marianne said, standing. "Mother and Father are waiting, and you know how Mother gets when she believes we are late."

She swept from the room in a rustle of heavy skirts, and Rebecca stood. Slowly, she crossed her chamber and set her book, Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice, on her armoire, trailing a loving hand over the cover. In spite of herself, she paused for a moment, examining her reflection. Wild brown hair twisted into a semblance of style, a long nose, no bosom to speak of, spectacles…a far cry from Marianne. But she had no use for her sister's beauty. Turning from the mirror, Rebecca left her room and descended the stairs to join her family.

Miss Elizabeth Swann's engagement celebration awaited.

A/N: Feedback is love and makes me write faster. In theory. I want suggestions for this one...it's a short chapter exercise.

Next Chapter: Our favorite Commodore appears.