A/N: Hello, readers. Before you start the story, can I just quickly say that my chapter in the collaborative fanfiction 'Mothers of the Caribbean' by A Magnificent Garden Party was on Cutler Beckett's mother and spawned this story you're looking at now. You may or may not want to read that chapter first, although you don't need to have read that to understand this. Both pieces can stand alone.

Unceasing ballads and drunken pirate songs are sent out to Nytd for beta-ing this chapter, and special thanks to the people who read my MotC chapter and ordered me to write more. :)

Now on with the story..

Chapter the First

It was like making love to a block of stone.

Eyes clouded with tears and throat clogged with helpless frustration, Helen planted a series of moist, breathy kisses along her husband's neck and chin, while wrapping her delicate fingers into his dark hair and tracing patterns along his bare back.

He barely seemed to register her desperate attempts at familiarity, as he remained still, arms braced on either side of Helen, somehow managing to be barely touching as they lay together.

Passion and love had nothing to do with such moments. It was duty and nothing more that incited Henry Beckett to ever respond at all to his young wife's heated lips and soft, fleshy embraces. The room would be almost silent as they couple were joined in stiff emotionless lovemaking.

Out of the corner of her eye, Helen could see her wedding dress, hanging limp and discarded, gathering dust. It watched her with wilting but accusing eyes, and Helen felt her own eyes mist over with hopeless tears of anger. Biting her lip, she pushed her husband onto his back and kissed him, forcing his stiff upper lip open with her tongue. Tears dried salty on her flushed cheeks as she moulded her mouth against his, clasping his silent, still form in between her long, slim legs, and begging for some sort of answer.

He didn't respond, letting her frustration run itself wild, until, emotionally spent, she collapsed onto his chest feeling utterly defeated. Then very deliberately he rolled her gently off him and carefully turned over.

As he pulled the cold covers over his equally cold form, nothing could have informed Helen she wasn't wanted more eloquently than that.

///

The room was neat and precisely ordered. The sharp morning sun filtered in between light, silken curtains, and sparked off the silverware gracing the polished wood of the Beckett's breakfast table. The table stretched the full length of the room, frugally sprinkled with plates and cups, with buns and fruit piled in bowls and saucers. A faint breeze danced in the open window, fluttered down the table, and tugged at the very edge of the newspaper clasped in Henry Beckett's hands.

The only sound in the room was the clinking of Helen's cutlery as she silently ate her breakfast, the words she wanted to say to her husband draining away into her orange juice as she took a nosedive into the goblet, attempting to drown out the uncomfortable silence. Beckett was oblivious; licking his thumb, he turned the page of his paper, taking a calculated bite out of a piece of toast as he did so.

Behind them the door creaked open, and a slight figure in a smart suit slipped in. The boy looked to be about eleven years old, dressed in stiff but well tailored clothes, perfectly fit to his small build. He took small careful steps across the cream carpet, eyeing Henry warily.

"Good morning, Father," he greeted, nodding politely.

Beckett didn't look up but a faint curt nod in the boy's direction announced his attention.

"Good morning, Mother," the boy continued, turning to Helen.

Helen smiled tightly, and pushed her breakfast plate away.

"Morning, Cutler," she sighed and pulled her young son into a quick embrace.

Cutler didn't object, but Beckett shot the two a disapproving glare, causing Helen to hold onto her son a little longer than normal. Beckett returned to his paper without a word and a small but triumphant smile appeared on Helen's face. The air in the room was suddenly lighter as Helen resumed her breakfast with a smile, and Cutler climbed onto a chair opposite his mother to begin his own.

Beckett was giving off an obvious signal to not be disturbed. Cutler made himself as small as possible as he ate, but Helen played with her food, batting a roll across her plate and humming to herself.

"So, Cutler," Helen finally asked, shattering the carefully constructed silence. "What did you think of Mr. Battiscrombe yesterday?"

Cutler looked startled. His eyes darted up from his plate to his mother, and he cast an anxious look at his father as he tried to form an answer. Before he could do anything more than furrow his brow, his father's cool voice cut in, "Mr. Maximilian Battiscrombe is a great friend of mine and an unsurpassed businessman."

There was nothing in his voice or his words that would be construed as threatening, but Cutler positively quailed.

"Yes, a very interesting man," Cutler finally agreed, choosing his words carefully. "He has invited me to return tomorrow, and he said he may take me on as a permanent apprentice."

Cutler's eyes were fixed on his plate and his voice was devoid of emotion. Beckett looked pleased though, and with a tight-lipped grin he folded up his newspaper.

"Fine news," he declared. "Fine news indeed."

Cutler let out a low sigh of relief and resumed eating his breakfast, but Helen's appetite seemed to have gone. Beckett unfolded from his seat, removing a napkin from his lap and placing it neatly on his plate. As he turned to exit the room, Helen looked up with weary eyes.

"Are you going to your study?" she asked meekly.

Beckett nodded once. "I have a lot of paperwork that needs attending to."

Helen looked demurely down at her plate. "I was hoping to go visit my sister today. She's just had her third child." Helen's voice was quiet and more than slightly wistful.

"I don't think so," Beckett replied evenly. "There is a distinct bite in the wind and we wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

Helen swallowed and didn't even bother to nod. The only sound in the room was Cutler buttering a piece of bread with deliberate, exaggerated strokes.

"We will be entertaining visitors later," Beckett continued as if this explained everything. "Put on something nice."

Beckett didn't wait for his wife's reaction and strode out of the room, letting the door clang behind him with a distinct finality.

The breakfast table was silent. Cutler looked up from the pot of jam in his hand, to his mother, who was staring at the door with a glazed expression on her face. Jerking his eyes away, he inhaled haltingly and looked back at his breakfast, where the bread he'd spent the entire conversation buttering was left limp and uneaten.

He pushed his plate away and got to his feet. "May I be excused, Mother?" he asked.

Helen jolted out of her brooding state. "Of course, dear." Her voice was falsely cheerful and the smile she summoned up unconvincing. "Go have fun."

Cutler smiled back and kissed her lightly on the cheek before he left. He didn't let the expression drop until he had padded across the carpet and slide out of the room. Then both Helen and Cutler's smiles disappeared, replaced with identical and unexpressed looks of loneliness and longing.

///

A shimmering heat haze hovered over the road. People were moving sluggishly, the weather sapping the energy out of their movements. Noise was muffled, the people too drained to bother with conversation; only a lone bird called out from a tree, but its song was unusually hoarse and weary.

Young Cutler Beckett shifted uncomfortably outside Mr. Maximilian Battiscrombe's house. He tugged at his stiff shirt collar, revealing momentarily a thin white neck. Wiping a clammy across his forehead, he brushed away a bead of sweat and stared up at the building in front of him.

It was vast in width and statue, rather like Mr. Battiscrombe himself. It towered over its neighbours, keeping a thick wall of expensive stone between it and the common man. Cutler swallowed a couple of times, breathing in gulps of stifling air. He normalised his breathing, but it was still with obvious trepidation that he raised a fist and knocked on the ostentatious oak door.

Once inside, Cutler was hit by a wall of cool air. Marble walls to the side, mosaic tiles below, and thick cream curtains pulled back to reveal large open windows, made the house open and airy. Cutler was led through the finery, barely stopping to glance at the portraits of Mr. Battiscrombe's illustrious family, or the various artistic and expensive busts and statues that lined the hall way.

Cutler wasn't spoken to as he was herded through the house, a tight-lipped housekeeper striding out in front, her shoes clipping icily along the floor. He was barely acknowledged until he was eventually deposited in the small gloomy study, right at the back of the house.

Mr. Battiscrombe was waiting for him there, sitting behind a desk, his large well-dressed bulk squeezed into an armchair, gripping a pen in between his podgy pink fingers.

"Master Beckett!" Battiscrombe called, a broad smile creasing up his red face.

He lumbered to his feet, pushing back his seat and stumbling over to shake hands with Cutler. He towered over him, Cutler's small hand disappearing into Mr. Battiscrombe's massive paw. As he shook Cutler's hand violently, he looked down at the younger boy, his wide smile sickly.

"I see you haven't grown since yesterday," Battiscrombe commented, leering above Cutler.

Then he laughed loudly, as if he'd just said something especially clever. His paunch wiggled over his trousers and his waistcoat rode upwards, revealing rolls of pale, blotchy flesh.

Cutler kept his face bland. "Yes, sir," he replied emotionlessly.

Battiscrombe's teeth showed yellow through his thin-lipped smile. "You're learning!" he roared, and with a gleeful cackle he smacked Cutler companionably on the back, sending him staggering forwards.

Waddling back round to his seat, Mr. Battiscrombe sat down, ignoring the chair as it moaned in distress under his weight. He pulled a pile of documents out from a draw, plopping them down in the middle of the table, sending smaller papers flying off the edge of the desk. Cutler's eyes swam as he stared at the endless lists of numbers and he blinked, banishing his sudden weariness. He sat down on a chair opposite Battiscrombe, trying to keep the sinking dread out of his face as he looked at the mountain of work.

"This is the life, isn't it, boy?" Battiscrombe commented lazily, watching Cutler begin sorting through the papers.

Cutler just nodded dutifully, and with a resigned sigh he picked up the nearest document and got to work.

///