"Miss Swann, the Queen sends her highest regards to you and the Governor of Port Royal, and Her Majesty also requests you wear this."
Elizabeth swiveled in her seat, her cheeks lightly marked with pink-hued rouge and her eyelashes brimming with a special, shining concealer. She managed to hide her grimace at the ugly, towering thing that bobbled on its stand. "Must I?" she asked.
"Why, yes, Miss. The Queen would also like your portrait sent to her when it is finished. She has heard of your beauty, even at such a young age." The woman's thick French accent clipped her words cruelly, and her narrow beady eyes squared off with the fifteen-year old.
Elizabeth immediately thought of envy glimmering in the lady's eyes, and she gulped down the resistant lump in her throat. Bear that horrid thing? It was enough having to pose for some silly painting, but it was another to elaborate on her costume. "It is not that I do not wish to wear it," she said while thinking the exact opposite. "I have just heard that in England, it is now fashionable to pose in the 'undress' and a wig such as this..." Elizabeth rose from her beige chair, strolling to the French woman's side and caressing the tight white curls. "Well, it may intervene with the beauty of the painting, don't you think?"
"You will wear it by the Queen's orders, Mademoiselle," the woman said, concisely nodding to the maids and then smiling wickedly at Miss Swann.
"Very well, then." Elizabeth grinded her teeth, turned on her heels, and plunked in the seat, her wide panniers creating quite the barrier between two maids as she settled in front of the vanity and pouted at her tousled curls. Elizabeth's loose locks and simple attire was one of the reasons she had ultimately agreed to having blasted portrait done and now it was all to shame. Her father would have no say in the matter with that beastly French woman at the head of the operation, and she lightly groaned as the wig was placed on the counter. Estrella bent her knees to face the girl, prepared to resume in masking Miss Swann's countenance.
"There are also accessories," the French woman added, this time a little sweeter, as if trying to coax the girl into liking her.
Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to witness one of her lady-maids hoisting a crimson silk pillow with several items gently pressed into place. Roses, light blue and pink ribbons, and... She could not contain her laughter at the sight of the last item that possessed its own pillow. "I'm to wear a ship in my hair?" Elizabeth chortled, covering her mouth with one hand as she stared at the large, foot-long vessel that included flowing sails and black portholes.
"Yes, the Queen herself wore one at her last birthday," the foreign lady said, her high cheekbones seeming to rise in fashion, proud that she had attended that lovely event.
"Oh," Elizabeth said, chuckling as she imagined herself hanging among other portraits in England, a ship poised partially in her artificial curls and a mischievous grin upon her face. "Then, let's have at it," Elizabeth said. If she was going to stand for hours upon end for a single painting...Well then, she would take it in stride with a mighty vessel bouncing on her head.
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The muscles in her neck stretched and ached, the powdered blonde wig stressing every nerve and sending headaches pounding through her head. She wore a tight satin chemise dress with narrow paned sleeves trimmed in light pink and the zone front of the dress crisscrossed across her petite bosom, little bows and ruffles tugged between the white and pink fabrics. She rolled her shoulders and tapped her foot to the quiet tolling of the clock.
One hour.
Two hours.
Three hours.
She stood and waited, and all she could listen to were the constant brushstrokes and scratching of the pencil from the artist. Her hands gripped the leather-backed chair, and the man yelled a French order to which Elizabeth quizzically stared at. Of course, she had learned French, but that was not to say that she absorbed every ounce of it. And... She was out of the habit of practicing, indulging in the better parts of life like wandering around the docks and pestering sailors. He shouted again when Elizabeth tilted her frilly head and then brought her slender hand to recover the wig's wobbling. She held up both hands, and finally, her father entered, interrupted in his studies and staring at the calming scene.
"What is the matter?" her father asked.
"I don't know," Elizabeth said quickly. "He keeps yelling; I don't know what I am doing wrong." She relaxed her posture, allowing herself to sag and inducing more squeaks from the stocky artist. "Oh, shut it," the fifteen-year old said, and her father scowled as he hissed her name and turned to the artist, striking up a brusque conversation with the frustrated painter.
Oh, what she would give to escape even for a quarter of an hour. Her feet felt like she wore lead heels, and a bloating pain bulged behind her left eye, making her squint in the settings. Wouldn't they lose light soon? No, perhaps not. It was quite early; the sun would last. Ten o'clock in the morning. What a time! With one hand propped on her hip, she ambled toward the sealed window, tugged aside the maroon drapes, and stared into the stretching meadows behind the mansion, a small longboat and a medium-sized lake calling her name.
"Elizabeth," Governor Swann interrupted her thoughts, strolling toward her. "It seems it is your lips."
"My lips?" she asked, holding back a little laugh. "What about them?" Of all things to complain of! The lighting, the positioning, or even the colors of her clothes would be normal, but a single feature? It seemed entirely strange.
"He says you are pouting too much, which makes you appear very brooding." Her father hesitantly, yet tenderly, touched her arm. "He only wishes for you to look your best, dear. As do I."
Elizabeth nodded, realizing how menacing she must have looked the past three hours and thought of how angry and drowsy she was at the beginning of the session. She did not meet her father's concerned gaze; instead, she maintained her eyesight on the mead, where a strapping apprentice flung his ax into trees alongside a few other men. She smiled as an idea buzzed in her mind. An excursion would do her good.
"Oh, of course," Elizabeth said with a tinge of sarcasm, tentatively glancing around the artist's palette and then to her previous pose. "Father," she said, fluttering her long eyelashes and flashing a kind smile. "May we pause for a while? Even for just an hour. I must get some fresh air." She inhaled the stifling atmosphere, feeling the plain walls closing in. After a long lapse of silence, her father finally nodded, quickly informing the French artist as Elizabeth scurried from the chamber, forgetting the wobbling vessel atop her head for the moment and bunching material of the wide white skirt into her fists.
She bounded out the door, breezing past a few servants and trotting along the spacious garden's pebbled path. Elizabeth adored the sweet smell of the flowers, but her eyes were on the boy. The young, charming boy out back. Galloping now, the fifteen-year old maneuvered out of the blossoming garden and emerged on the edge of the still lake, halting where the baby-blue lined longboat rested. She scanned the premises, watching for any movement, but the forest was quiet except for the chirping of swallows. With one hand acting as a crutch to her phony locks, Elizabeth sighed, hoping that he would return within minutes.
Deciding she best not waste her time just standing there, the girl pushed the boat into the still water, and realizing her feet would quickly become caked in muck, she chucked her shoes onto the shore and then waded into the shallow water, hoisting her layered skirts over her knees and yanking up her bloomers. She climbed, or rather flopped, into the longboat in a fit of giggles, the two-foot high wig trembling with every movement and the ship swaying in the wind. She positioned the oars on either side and began to row, stroking to the middle of the lake, and then the girl bent at the waist and lay on her stomach, allowing her fingers to caress the drifting lilies and feel the cool water against the tips. She dipped her head against the wooden seat, relaxing the muscles in her neck and relishing in the ecstasy of lying there, doing nothing and not worrying about her governess shouting her name or her father escorting her to society's ridiculous functions. Oh, blessed were her moments alone... Or with someone other than the Lieutenant or the Governor. Her ears pricked at a rustling in the grass; it was a distinct clomping of buckled shoes, the release of a heavy, exhausted breath, and the clatter of wood knocking together. Her ship popped up first, and then gradually, her wig inched up over the boat's edge until her the bridge of her nose was clear, and she squinted in the morning daylight, focusing on the far shore.
She let out a mini-squeal.
There he was!
She crawled to her knees and then, in rapture of seeing him for the first time in several weeks, Elizabeth rose to a standing position and waved to the lad who was her exact age but much more muscular and handsome. Elizabeth screamed his name, gesturing wildly.
He nearly dropped every chopped log, and as he recovered he asked quietly, "Elizabeth?"
"Hello," she said, unevenly rising on her toes. She abruptly remembered her outrageous wig and reached up to steady it when the boat wavered beneath her. Elizabeth picked up one foot then the other, realizing she was haphazardly arranged in the boat, and her heavy skirt was tugging her to one side. The girl outstretched both of her thin arms for balance, immediately realizing the outcome... As she went toppling into the water.
"Elizabeth!" His voice was hoarse and harsh, and William Turner II began to kick off his leather shoes and unbutton his jacket, preparing to plunge into the quavering waters as he cried her name again.
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OT: Well, this came to me the other night when I was watching Marie Antoinette, that lavish, lovely, and colorful film that I adore, even though it does tend to lack in excitement. I thought of how the Queen had her portraits painted with her children and alone, Kirsten Dunst's serene expression when she is at Petite Trianon, gliding in the boat in the calm lake, and just the general air of the movie. And I decided, as the idea formed, it screamed a typical, more than likely predictable, hopefully a little unexpected storyline for Will and Elizabeth when they were young. It may be a little cliche, but I'm all right with that.
I decided that Elizabeth doesn't have much luck with feminine accessories, seeing as the corset is what started the first Pirates movie, and she never seemed to be able to stay in a dress for very long for one reason or another. Why not a wig to prompt and move a story forward?
I also incorporated what Keira Knightley once said in an interview... She said that when she was filming Pride and Prejudice, the director kept yelling at her to "Stop pouting!" And she would have to really think about it to correct herself because it was a natural habit. Seeing as Keira Knightley portrays Elizabeth... I couldn't resist, mate.
This will probably be three or four chapters. Nothing very long. It is just a little story about Will and Elizabeth's interactions as youngins. Hopefully a few chuckles in the following chapter...
I appreciate any reviews! Thanks!