DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, except Issie. Anyone want to trade her for Jack?
No? Oh well. Worth a try.
~
SUMMARY: Isabelle Miller, governess to the daughter of Will and Elizabeth Turner, confides in her diary as her life takes a turn for the worse. The pages tell a story of kidnap, treachery and the company of a certain pirate captain. . . R&R!
~
A/N: Ahoy there, me hearties! Ahem. Sorry. Welcome to my story. Hope you like it! And please review! I'm one of those highly un-motivated people who won't continue a fic without reviews.
* * - show emphasis, since I haven't quite mastered italics yet.
~
Anyway, here we go. . .
~
CHAPTER ONE
~
Dear Journal
Hold on. I need a second.
All right. I think I can begin. My hand is shaking, so excuse my writing; I can hardly see the page through tears.
Come on, Isabelle. Pull yourself together. You know it will help to write it all down. Just take a deep breath and let it pour out.
Well, it began this morning, I suppose. It was a blustery autumn day, clear and crisp and brisk. Mary Turner, my student, was even more restless than usual. Something about the wind twirling through the treetops always sends her mad. After a few tedious hours in the classroom- a cosy drawing room where I give Mary her lessons- I finally threw my hands in the air with a resigned sigh.
"You're more restless than a wild monkey today, Mary Pearl Turner. I don't know what to do with you!"
"I'm not in a learning-ish mood," she moaned. I grinned. Six-year-olds have very interesting vocabularies sometimes.
"How about an afternoon outing, then?"
Mary leapt to her feet. "Yes! Can we go and see the ships, Miss Isabelle? And the market? Please?" She caught hold of my skirts and looked up at me, her wide eyes shining with expectation. How could I say no?
"All right. But only if your mother agrees, understand? And you must work especially hard at your lessons tomorrow."
With a squeal of joy that quite drowned out my last words, Mary tore out of the classroom to find her mother. Thankfully Mrs Turner agreed, and we were soon on our way.
We walked to the harbour- well I walked, and Mary skipped, bouncing like a puppy. She was, as always, enthralled by the ships- and I admit that I love them as much as her. We sat for a long while, watching the great majestic sails balloon and flutter in the salty breeze. My hair was tugged loose from its tight braid and I felt the worries lift from my heart like a musty sheet being pulled away. We sang a few of Mary's favourite nursery rhymes at the top of our voices, earning a few strange glances from the men loading the ships. I felt free and cheerful for the first time in months. It was a wonderful hour. When Mary tired of the ships, we headed for the Wednesday market along the shorefront boulevard.
I love the market too, with its array of stalls lining the cobbled avenue, jostling for position. Everything is so loud and bright and colourful. We passed many different stalls; some laden with fresh fish, several stacked high with exotic fragrant fruit and a few displaying handmade jewellery and fabrics. The shopkeepers bartered good-naturedly with customers, their voices clamouring on the breeze.
We had wandered for a good while when I caught sight of a beautiful scarf of Arabian silk, probably brought in that morning on one of the trade ships. It was lovely; shot through with rich purple and edged with filigree golden lace. I let go of Mary's hand for a moment to check the price. Far too expensive, as I had expected. With an apologetic shake of the head to the shopkeeper, I replaced the scarf and felt for Mary at my side.
She wasn't there.
I don't know how I am going to write this part. It floods me with horror whenever I think of it.
I spun a full circle, scanning the slow-moving river of people flowing by. "Mary?" I called, moving away from the shop. No sign of her. My heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against my chest. Oh God, I thought, where is she? That is when I saw a tall man weaving through the crowd ahead, leading a little blonde-pigtailed girl by the wrist. It was Mary. "Stop!" I cried, battling my way forward through the crush of bodies. At the sound of my voice the man glanced briefly over his shoulder. I caught a brief glimpse of a broad, swarthy face with a neatly trimmed black beard before he turned back, lifted Mary easily into his arms and broke into a controlled jog, elbowing his way through the crowd. I noticed fleetingly that he moved with a slight limp, favouring his left foot.
I cried out again, but my voice melted into the general din of the market.
As I pushed forward desperately, the throng of people seemed to tighten around me. No one payed much attention to me. I was just another young woman trying to make a way through the crowd. For several agonising seconds my way was blocked by a group of merchants on horse back and, by the time the path had cleared, there was no sign of Mary or her kidnapper. I hurried forward nevertheless, my eyes searching urgently. I gave up when I reached the opposite end of the marketplace. The crowd had thinned, and there were any number of side streets and alleyways in which the kidnapper could hide. He could be half a mile away by now, on horseback. I slumped by the road, sobbing with guilt, frustration and horror. What had I done?
Compose yourself, Isabelle Miller, I told myself sharply. You've lost her, and here you are weeping in the gutter, doing no good for anyone. The very least you can do is control yourself.
I fought to clear my mind as I got to my feet and briskly swiped the tears from my eyes. The best thing to do, I decided, was to tell the Turners. Then a full search could begin.
I remember little of the race back to the manor on the hill. The memory is a blur of pounding feet and long cumbersome skirts flapping about my legs. I think that at that stage my mind was numb- I felt only a desperate helplessness and the urgent need to tell someone about Mary. I fooled myself that everything would be all right once Mary's parents knew. Surely they would be able to do something.
I burst into the manor and seized the nearest person. It was Anna, the scullery maid.
"Where is Mrs Turner?" I half-yelled at the poor girl. I must have looked a fright- dishevelled hair, red face dripping with sweat and eyes wide with terror.
"I-I think she's in the sunroom, with Mr Turner. Issie, what-?"
Without another word I charged away and pounded upstairs. I threw open the door to the sunroom and burst inside. There sat Elizabeth with William Turner, her husband. They had been laughing about something but looked up, startled, at my arrival.
"Isabelle?" Mrs Turner raised an eyebrow. "What on Earth is wrong?"
"Mary," I panted, half-sobbing. "She- she's been taken. By a man. A-at the marketplace."
Both Turners rose to their feet in slow motion. It would have been almost comical, had the situation not been so terrible.
"What?" William gasped. Elizabeth swayed on her feet.
"I-I turned my back for a m-moment, and she was g-gone."
The Turners seemed frozen with horror. This isn't meant to happen, I thought irrationally. They should be leaping into action, starting a search, doing *something*. To my relief, William gathered himself and started firing questions with alarming urgency.
"How long ago? Where exactly did you last see her? Did you see the man clearly?"
"About-about half an hour ago, in the middle of the market, by a fabric stall. I-I think I got a decent look."
"Describe him."
This swift efficiency helped me to think. "He had a short black beard and a broad sort of face. Tall, quite well built, wearing a long dark coat and brown trousers. He had shortly cropped hair. I'd say about thirty-five years old. Walked with a slight limp."
"Doesn't sound familiar." William began to pace up and down the room, grimacing.
"Oh, Will," Elizabeth said, her voice thick with pain. "What are we going to do? The Navy? Commodore Westleigh?
William shook his head. "No, no. You know that he will not help. He bears a grudge against me. He knows of my connections with pirates, not to mention my own activities. If only Norrington was still there." He raised a hand to his forehead.
"Will!" Elizabeth suddenly gasped. "Jack will help!"
"Of course!" William cried, making for the door. "If there's one man who knows every low-life in Port Royal, it's Jack Sparrow. Come, the Pearl is docked at the harbour. Hurry!"
They left the room faster than I have seen anyone move before. "Stay here," Elizabeth shot over her shoulder. "We'll be back soon."
After they left I wandered aimlessly through the house for a few moments, my mind struggling beneath a tumultuous squall of emotions. I found myself in my room, downstairs in the servant's quarters. I slumped at my small desk, made many years ago by my grandfather, shipped from England because I couldn't bear to be parted from it. Running my trembling fingers across its notched surface, the cool wood helped to soothe me a little.
That was when this book caught my eye, leather with embossed gold letters spelling out the word 'journal' across its cover. It had been a parting gift from my Aunty Emmaline, left sitting idly on my desk for years. I had never had use for it before but now I found myself lifting it, flipping open the smooth cover. On the title page, in small rounded script, Aunty had written: "To record your thoughts my dear, in the strange new world. May these pages speak of many happy days."
And here I am. I have filled seven pages already, and none of it happy. But it is good to put my thoughts on paper. I feel calmer.
Wait.
Footsteps on the stairs. . .
~
SUMMARY: Isabelle Miller, governess to the daughter of Will and Elizabeth Turner, confides in her diary as her life takes a turn for the worse. The pages tell a story of kidnap, treachery and the company of a certain pirate captain. . . R&R!
~
A/N: Ahoy there, me hearties! Ahem. Sorry. Welcome to my story. Hope you like it! And please review! I'm one of those highly un-motivated people who won't continue a fic without reviews.
* * - show emphasis, since I haven't quite mastered italics yet.
~
Anyway, here we go. . .
~
CHAPTER ONE
~
Dear Journal
Hold on. I need a second.
All right. I think I can begin. My hand is shaking, so excuse my writing; I can hardly see the page through tears.
Come on, Isabelle. Pull yourself together. You know it will help to write it all down. Just take a deep breath and let it pour out.
Well, it began this morning, I suppose. It was a blustery autumn day, clear and crisp and brisk. Mary Turner, my student, was even more restless than usual. Something about the wind twirling through the treetops always sends her mad. After a few tedious hours in the classroom- a cosy drawing room where I give Mary her lessons- I finally threw my hands in the air with a resigned sigh.
"You're more restless than a wild monkey today, Mary Pearl Turner. I don't know what to do with you!"
"I'm not in a learning-ish mood," she moaned. I grinned. Six-year-olds have very interesting vocabularies sometimes.
"How about an afternoon outing, then?"
Mary leapt to her feet. "Yes! Can we go and see the ships, Miss Isabelle? And the market? Please?" She caught hold of my skirts and looked up at me, her wide eyes shining with expectation. How could I say no?
"All right. But only if your mother agrees, understand? And you must work especially hard at your lessons tomorrow."
With a squeal of joy that quite drowned out my last words, Mary tore out of the classroom to find her mother. Thankfully Mrs Turner agreed, and we were soon on our way.
We walked to the harbour- well I walked, and Mary skipped, bouncing like a puppy. She was, as always, enthralled by the ships- and I admit that I love them as much as her. We sat for a long while, watching the great majestic sails balloon and flutter in the salty breeze. My hair was tugged loose from its tight braid and I felt the worries lift from my heart like a musty sheet being pulled away. We sang a few of Mary's favourite nursery rhymes at the top of our voices, earning a few strange glances from the men loading the ships. I felt free and cheerful for the first time in months. It was a wonderful hour. When Mary tired of the ships, we headed for the Wednesday market along the shorefront boulevard.
I love the market too, with its array of stalls lining the cobbled avenue, jostling for position. Everything is so loud and bright and colourful. We passed many different stalls; some laden with fresh fish, several stacked high with exotic fragrant fruit and a few displaying handmade jewellery and fabrics. The shopkeepers bartered good-naturedly with customers, their voices clamouring on the breeze.
We had wandered for a good while when I caught sight of a beautiful scarf of Arabian silk, probably brought in that morning on one of the trade ships. It was lovely; shot through with rich purple and edged with filigree golden lace. I let go of Mary's hand for a moment to check the price. Far too expensive, as I had expected. With an apologetic shake of the head to the shopkeeper, I replaced the scarf and felt for Mary at my side.
She wasn't there.
I don't know how I am going to write this part. It floods me with horror whenever I think of it.
I spun a full circle, scanning the slow-moving river of people flowing by. "Mary?" I called, moving away from the shop. No sign of her. My heart began to beat a frantic rhythm against my chest. Oh God, I thought, where is she? That is when I saw a tall man weaving through the crowd ahead, leading a little blonde-pigtailed girl by the wrist. It was Mary. "Stop!" I cried, battling my way forward through the crush of bodies. At the sound of my voice the man glanced briefly over his shoulder. I caught a brief glimpse of a broad, swarthy face with a neatly trimmed black beard before he turned back, lifted Mary easily into his arms and broke into a controlled jog, elbowing his way through the crowd. I noticed fleetingly that he moved with a slight limp, favouring his left foot.
I cried out again, but my voice melted into the general din of the market.
As I pushed forward desperately, the throng of people seemed to tighten around me. No one payed much attention to me. I was just another young woman trying to make a way through the crowd. For several agonising seconds my way was blocked by a group of merchants on horse back and, by the time the path had cleared, there was no sign of Mary or her kidnapper. I hurried forward nevertheless, my eyes searching urgently. I gave up when I reached the opposite end of the marketplace. The crowd had thinned, and there were any number of side streets and alleyways in which the kidnapper could hide. He could be half a mile away by now, on horseback. I slumped by the road, sobbing with guilt, frustration and horror. What had I done?
Compose yourself, Isabelle Miller, I told myself sharply. You've lost her, and here you are weeping in the gutter, doing no good for anyone. The very least you can do is control yourself.
I fought to clear my mind as I got to my feet and briskly swiped the tears from my eyes. The best thing to do, I decided, was to tell the Turners. Then a full search could begin.
I remember little of the race back to the manor on the hill. The memory is a blur of pounding feet and long cumbersome skirts flapping about my legs. I think that at that stage my mind was numb- I felt only a desperate helplessness and the urgent need to tell someone about Mary. I fooled myself that everything would be all right once Mary's parents knew. Surely they would be able to do something.
I burst into the manor and seized the nearest person. It was Anna, the scullery maid.
"Where is Mrs Turner?" I half-yelled at the poor girl. I must have looked a fright- dishevelled hair, red face dripping with sweat and eyes wide with terror.
"I-I think she's in the sunroom, with Mr Turner. Issie, what-?"
Without another word I charged away and pounded upstairs. I threw open the door to the sunroom and burst inside. There sat Elizabeth with William Turner, her husband. They had been laughing about something but looked up, startled, at my arrival.
"Isabelle?" Mrs Turner raised an eyebrow. "What on Earth is wrong?"
"Mary," I panted, half-sobbing. "She- she's been taken. By a man. A-at the marketplace."
Both Turners rose to their feet in slow motion. It would have been almost comical, had the situation not been so terrible.
"What?" William gasped. Elizabeth swayed on her feet.
"I-I turned my back for a m-moment, and she was g-gone."
The Turners seemed frozen with horror. This isn't meant to happen, I thought irrationally. They should be leaping into action, starting a search, doing *something*. To my relief, William gathered himself and started firing questions with alarming urgency.
"How long ago? Where exactly did you last see her? Did you see the man clearly?"
"About-about half an hour ago, in the middle of the market, by a fabric stall. I-I think I got a decent look."
"Describe him."
This swift efficiency helped me to think. "He had a short black beard and a broad sort of face. Tall, quite well built, wearing a long dark coat and brown trousers. He had shortly cropped hair. I'd say about thirty-five years old. Walked with a slight limp."
"Doesn't sound familiar." William began to pace up and down the room, grimacing.
"Oh, Will," Elizabeth said, her voice thick with pain. "What are we going to do? The Navy? Commodore Westleigh?
William shook his head. "No, no. You know that he will not help. He bears a grudge against me. He knows of my connections with pirates, not to mention my own activities. If only Norrington was still there." He raised a hand to his forehead.
"Will!" Elizabeth suddenly gasped. "Jack will help!"
"Of course!" William cried, making for the door. "If there's one man who knows every low-life in Port Royal, it's Jack Sparrow. Come, the Pearl is docked at the harbour. Hurry!"
They left the room faster than I have seen anyone move before. "Stay here," Elizabeth shot over her shoulder. "We'll be back soon."
After they left I wandered aimlessly through the house for a few moments, my mind struggling beneath a tumultuous squall of emotions. I found myself in my room, downstairs in the servant's quarters. I slumped at my small desk, made many years ago by my grandfather, shipped from England because I couldn't bear to be parted from it. Running my trembling fingers across its notched surface, the cool wood helped to soothe me a little.
That was when this book caught my eye, leather with embossed gold letters spelling out the word 'journal' across its cover. It had been a parting gift from my Aunty Emmaline, left sitting idly on my desk for years. I had never had use for it before but now I found myself lifting it, flipping open the smooth cover. On the title page, in small rounded script, Aunty had written: "To record your thoughts my dear, in the strange new world. May these pages speak of many happy days."
And here I am. I have filled seven pages already, and none of it happy. But it is good to put my thoughts on paper. I feel calmer.
Wait.
Footsteps on the stairs. . .
