AN- just to let you know, this is the very first time I've tried my hand at an OC character. I know some OCs are very Mary sue, but I promise, I'll try my very best to stay way back from that line. That being said, my OC ISN'T just going to be either, the damsel in distress and having everyone save her because she's absolutely useless or great at everything, neither will she be just an add in and this story being nothing but regurgitation of Black sails plot, she will change certain things.
As for pairings, they will not be the main focus but it will be in there. Just because its how I like my stories. Expect Calico Jack to be one of the options, because he's my favourite character but I am up for anything you guys suggest. I'm actually really nervous how you guys are going to like this and my OC, nail biting ensues!
I hope you enjoy this chapter and please review, it let's me know I'm not wasting my time writing something no one reads :) -GoWithTheFlo20 _
Clara, as a child was rambunctious and held a thirst for adventure unlike many had seen in the fairer sex. In her younger years, it was not an odd sight to see the curly ginger haired, skinny girl of the local baker running the streets with no qualms or worries, dressed in shirts to big and trousers often blotted with mud and grass stains, freckles dusted across a small button nose on an impish face. She made friends with the orphans who populated the street, getting into mischief that often left her being dragged by her shirt collar back to the bakery with red ears and a sound cuff up the back of the head for her behavior. Her mother would berate her, sometimes beg for her to be calm and act proper, but being only a child, with her head filled with dreams of dragons and great fights, she did not heed.
Many put it down to her lack of a father, being born out of wedlock and no man of the house to speak of, left her to derision of many lords, ladies and higher status-ed persons. But it also gave her a freedom she swallowed readily. No one expected any better from a bastard, or the poor bakers daughter. She could do what she liked and no one would bat an eye-lid. It was only when she was ten, having been herded back to the small, quaint bakery once more for lifting a peach out of an unloading cart, that guilt and worry really hit home. The very same day she found out about her missing father.
Her mother had said the usually spiel, apologized and promised that Clara would not do it again, even when all parties involved knew otherwise, but when the merchant left, her mother had plopped down on a unsteady stall in a flurry of flour soiled skirts, and burst out into rivets of tears. It took Clara by surprise. Her mother was always strong, poised and hardy. To see tears on her face would be like seeing the sky raining frogs. It just didn't happen. In her childish mind, strong people didn't cry, only years later, well past the age of ten did she realize why. Strong people hid their tears from the world, but they cried all the same.
That was the night she had learned her beginning... And to bury her dreams down for survival. Apparently, between wet sobs and sniffs from her mother, she learned Mary Summerfield was once engaged to an Apothecary owner. Her mother despised the match, the Apothecary owner being sullen, dreary and a stickler for the bible and rules. A young Mary was, according to her tale, a lot like her daughter Clara, filled with dreams and hopes that would never come to pass.
But Mary had a friend, and after a night of sneaking out and tankards of spiced rum, her and her friend did the deed. Months later, when Marys belly swelled and there was no hiding the pregnancy, the Apothecary owner called off the engagement, saying he would not raise another mans child and tie himself to a scarlet woman. Mary and her male friend, her mother never did tell her his full name, did not love each other, neither had pretended they had but they held a strong friendship, a friendship that didn't change despite the growing baby Mary housed.
And when the man found out, he being a part of the royal navy her mother told her, he stuck by Mary, not in marriage, but enough to give Clara his last name on her birth certificate, a signature, and her first name, apparently from his own mother. Then, the year she turned one, he just upped and left.
Her mother said he had lost someone he loved and could not handle it, could not see another day on English soil without the memory haunting him. Clara never knew where he went, or what became of him, Mary would always divert the questioning when the mood took Clara to ponder on the missing man. He was likely dead, or in jail Clara concluded.
When she had first heard the story, at the tender age of ten, her first thoughts were of herself, was she not enough? Did he not love her like the lost loved one? But age pushed those thoughts away, and soon she thought nothing of him but of her mother. If she thought she was strong before, she now knew Mary Summerfield was iron wrought.
She had kept Clara in a relative comfortable life, fed her, cleaned her, dressed her to the best of her ability, no invisible man was worth the diversion of those facts. She did not need him if she had her mother, she never would need him, Mary had taught her that, never lean on anyone, always trust yourself to pull through.
Clara grew up a lot that year, and even more in the following years, gone were her wanderings and play times. She instead helped at the bakery, more and more over the years as her mother grew pale and weak from some unknown ailment. One thing never left, her need for adventure, that churning want that flared up in her gut and seized her some nights, when she would question if this was all there was to life. She never let it show, couldn't with how fast her mother started going downhill at Claras eighteenth year.
Soon the paleness grew sallow, Mary had a wracking cough that seized her body and made her shoulders hunch permanently under the pressure, hankies often coming away from Marys mouth with crimson blood splattered on, starkly contrasted by the starched white clothe. Clara knew what was coming, but she didn't want to voice it, didn't want to give it the light of day, the chance to come alive and really happen. Mary held no such convictions.
Clara had just finished pushing the last of the loaves into the open stone stove, pushing them further into the fire with a burnt wooden stick, coughing and sneezing as smoke poured out from the hole and filled her lungs, when her mothers voice rang out croaky from the back room, their bedroom and as of late, her mothers permanent residence.
"Clara! Clara dear come here, we have much to discuss."
Clara grimaced hard when Marys sentence led to a bout of wet sounding coughing, but she schooled her features. Mary had been strong for Clara all these years, she could very well do the same for her loving mother. Looking around the small store, Clara untied the apron, smoothed down her scratchy work dress, hooked the apron on a skewed hook and made her way towards the back with light footsteps. The shop was empty, and would likely be until noon came and farmers, merchants, and hungry patrons came for luncheon.
Creaking open the flaking door, Clara peered in and saw her mother nestled in pillows and blankets, black hair splayed around her head like a halo. Her mother gave her a chapped lipped smile, teary eyes looking blearily at her. Clara remembered when they used to be a vivid green, now they looked ashen, like burnt grass. It was the little changes to her mother that hurt most. The small signs that just shouted at you how ill she was.
Stepping through the threshold of the doorway, she firmly shut the door closed behind her with a muted thud and steeled her spine. Strong, she would be strong. Painting a smile on her face that didn't quiet reach her eyes and adding a bounce to her step she did not have, Clara made her way over, pulling up a wonky chair to the bed.
Mary raised her hand shakily and Clara wasted no time in snatching up the limb and holding it between her own hands, trying so hard not to cringe or cry at the absolute coldness of her mothers fingers on her wrist. Mary was just chilly was all, even if the bright sun blazing through the window of the room told otherwise. Pulling one hand away, Clara pulled the the blankets up and over her mother. Only for Mary to flick her hand away with her free one.
"It is no use dearest, you and i know this. It wont be long now, i feel it in my bones as surely as it shows on my face."
Clara grasped her mothers hand once more and squeezed more then she intended to, her frustration and worry showing through her clenching fingers. She didn't want to hear these words, not from her mother and not from herself. Mary would get better, she had too, Clara did not know what she would do otherwise.
"Mother, Don't say things like that. You'll get well, i know it, it's just a fever, it'll pass soon and you'll go back to baking and I'll go back to running rampant and causing you trouble."
The chuckle from Mary was broken and harsh, once again ending in coughing. Clara snatched up a hanky from the night stand and pressed it to her mothers open and wheezing mouth. Pulling it away only when the coughing had passed, pushing back the tears when the clothe came away with so much blood the white hardly peaked through. Not wanting her mother to see, she dropped the hanky back onto the desk in record timing. Out of sight, out of mind. But she could still see the red in her peripheral vision, a blazing sign that would not leave her be no matter how hard she tried to push it away. In the end, she had to force herself not to look, not to give any mind to it, her neck ached with how stiff the muscles grew from her sheer determination not to turn around.
"You are anything but an idiot Clara, do not pretend to be so. You're such a bonnie lass, red hair like sunset, blue eyes that remind me of the shining sea. And look how tall you've grown, an envy of many women to be sure and treasure to many men. You, you are my greatest achievement in this life, my little flower in the weed garden. Do not ever change, You hear me? Never let anyone push you down."
Mary wiggled her hand free from Claras tight grasp, running her fingers through Claras long and loose curls. Clara fought even harder to keep the tears at bay, why did this sound like a goodbye?
"But i digress. Soon, i will leave this world, and i know better than anyone what it is like growing up without a husband in these parts of London. I don't want that for you, anything but that. So i have been mailing your second removed cousin, Edward Livingston. He lives in Boston now don't you know? I hear the Americas are wonderful, truly peaceful. A good place for someone like you to grow fully, settle down and have a family of your own."
Clara bit back the retort of not wanting another family, not wanting to settle down, now was not the time to voice such opinions. She was happy with her mother and the small bakery, even if that traitorous voice in the back of her mind screamed otherwise.
"Mother, what are you getting at? Maybe you should sleep, rest, gain your strength back."
Mary cut her off with a glare that could wither stone and just for a moment, Clara was happy. There still was a piece of her old mother, her strong mother deep in there, no matter if her ire was aimed at her, it was a good thing to see.
"I have rested enough. Sleep will do no good... Not anymore. It's already settled, the Captains paid and spoken for, your money stored well. Yes, all there is need of is for you to pack. Tonight at six sharp, you will be down at the main harbor. Find Captain Ludford, he'll be expecting you. You will board his ship, and he will take you to another port, There you will board the Scarborough, the Captain will take you to Boston where your cousin is waiting for you. It will be a long journey, but it was the best i could do. I do not wish for you to see me fade away anymore than you already have."
Clara bolted out of her chair, anger searing her veins. No matter her temper, she could not bring herself to say the dreaded word of death. But she did flush and and splutter her outrage.
"You're sending me away? Now, when you need me most? Mother, you can't... You're not going to di-... You can't do this. My life is here, all I've ever known is here, surely you can't be serious? No, i wont do it!"
Marys glare was back tenfold, but was this time matched with Claras own.
"I'm dying Clara. It's okay to say that, it's fact, i don't have long and will you really deny me my last wish, on what is likely to be my deathbed? No, you will do this, even if i have to get out of this bed and drag you there myself. You'll be safer in Boston, happier too, that's all I've ever wanted for you. Please, for once listen to me and do as i say. This will be the last thing i ask, do not deny me it."
And Claras anger washed away like the tide receded. It was one thing to think it, but to hear her mother say it made it too real. Mary Summerfield was dying, and soon Clara would be on her own in the world. Finally the tears fell as Clara sagged back into the chair, skirts crumpling in disarray, hand shaking violently as she futilely swiped at the tears running down her freckled cheeks. Her hand was pulled away from its harsh scrubbing by Mary, a gentle smile on her face and her own tears glistening in her eyes. Even on her deathbed, Mary was so stubborn Clara knew the tears would never fall, such was her mothers character.
"Please Clara, do not cry. Not for me and not for a life well lived. I had this bakery, i had friends and most importantly i had you, i can rest easy with my lot in life. Now promise me, promise me you will go pack your bags and leave on this ship."
Clara struggled to regain her composure, but surely no one could blame her for this once. The only woman she had ever known, the only person not to sneer or make comments that often included bastard, apart from the orphans, was dying. Her mother was dying and the world would be a grayer place without her. There was nothing she could do to stop this, in that single moment, Clara had never felt such helplessness.
"I promise."
Marys hand left her own and ventured to her face, running the cold palm over Claras cheek, thumb running back and forth soothingly over the pale skin.
"Go, pack. Just remember, always be strong. And never, ever change. Always be you and you'll get by, i know it... My beautiful, bonnie Clara Flint
