Disclaimer: Just playing, I'll send them home to Disney when I'm done.
LADY OF POWER Trilogy
Part 1 – WORTHY OF THE CROWN
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Summoned by his deceitful employer, young Jack tries to distinguish between a perceived betrayal and a possible future one.
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Jack's POV
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I have no liking for being here.
Trust me, a man what has a bloody black mark on his record never likes being summoned by his employer.
I've no use for the man, but I do like his ship. She's a real beauty, and mine now. But that'd be the start of me troubles. I didn't like Captain Abraham Kelsey. Always calling me gypsy boy – and him being gone most times in his drink.
I mean, what idiot gets so drunk as to fall off his own ship while she's docked, 'ey?
And who ran things, giving orders then? Gypsy boy.
Aye, Kelsey drowned, but that's an odd tale for a later telling.
Now I'm standing here in this great cold office about the size of a cathedral. I know not whether to bow or clasp my hands in mock prayer at his entrance, so I do neither.
Ah, that silly outfit of his. All frills and shiny blue silk. How laughable that he truly thinks himself worthy of the Crown, the wretched fop.
No one bloody abides with powdered wigs and fancy silver walking canes here.
And she's here, too, standing proper at his side, lidded eyes quashing my urge to touch, painted lips too tight.
Oh, I believed I knew this lady once -- all shy smiles, floppy ribbons and pink rose petals.
Before that fancy idiot returned from England and betrayed her sad lie to me.
Unrecognizable, sullen, and remote, she is, quite formidable in black gown and traveling cape, big white lace and ugly gold buttons. But she can't look at me with him that close.
Hard to tell who's most hurt, but in truth, it's probably me, and is this to be me paying for an honestly harmless, kind-spirited deed – or something worse?
He must know by now that Kelsey's death was an accident, one would think.
For her, it looks to be a decision of family honor, quite forgotten until his pompous return. I can muster up no surprise, yet I've no right to judge. What do I know of family duty, eh?
Oh, the shameful boasting he did deep in his cups, of the wonderful English court where he apparently found himself favor with the Crown. Her guilt heard his bloody prattle about worthiness while I thought only of her true majesty, which I willingly serve - the sea.
Aye, I felt it quite clearly at his welcome feast; saw it in the uncle's face. While he controls a trading empire, he'll not allow his half-sister a future of poverty with a common merchant captain. Her lofty destiny is, no doubt, stiff society balls and snobby country clubs worthy of the Crown.
Poverty? That was his meaning, not mine. I do well enough for myself, thank you.
She nodded courteously, her gaze distant. "Good morning, Captain Teague."
I think my nod was equally without emotion, but I could have just looked dazed. She did that to me, the evil wench. "Milady Beckett."
Her wretched brother observed us both closer than I thought necessary, the little white-wigged bastard frowning when neither extended a hand in cordial greeting. I was probably more wary than polite, sure that he was up to something I wasn't going to like – and just as sure that she knew what that was.
He strutted round behind his huge wood desk, waving the absurd cane in the air like a demented wizard. And when an envelope with an oddly familiar seal appeared in his hand, he swished it about his foppish face like he was about to swoon. Oh, that he would.
"You are hereby to forget your previous orders, captain," he said crisply, missing my look of contempt. "These have just come in – for which I have personally recommended you."
Change in my orders? Personal recommendation? My look, I imagine, became one of sudden discomfort and certainly not appreciation.
This had not happened before. Well, at least not to me.
Changing orders, and in a few hours I'd been prepared to leave for the Colonies to pick up a sugarcane shipment -and maybe another keg of that good rum Kelsey had left me. The trip had been plotted by me yesterday so I knew its distance.
Oi, no one on my ship touches my sextant, er, things I chart with, okay?
I considered refusing to see how the blackguard took it and I spotted fear in her eyes. Or maybe it was a feeling of unease we seemed to be sharing of this place. She said nothing, but her gloved fingers fidgeted with that bulgy long bag-thing hung about her wrist as she stared at the letter.
So she did fear something may be wrong, whereby heightening my own distress. In a fit of nerves, I quickly hid unsteady hands with my cap, sweat-stained parchment and all.
"And what of the sugarcane shipment?" I asked, half crumpling my orders and thinking miserably of all that charting I had to do again. "Who's to go to the Colonies, then?"
He waved his hand in easy dismissal at my question, the little weasel. "Oh, that's gone to Captain Turner. Seems he's back early from Havana."
"Captain Turner?" I could barely cover my confusion. William Turner had told me, not four days ago, at the tavern, how the Mistress needed her sails mended before taking another long trip.
Well, as you may guess, I was verging on said protest of fact when, with little warning, my own brain stopped me. The idiot didn't know about any torn sails, did he?
Caught in his own moronic lie, and me not about to spoil it with truth if I could use it against him somehow. He'd bloody cancelled the sugarcane shipment. And did I really expect any reason from him what I could believe now – even if was to hear one?
"Come, dear sister, the carriage awaits outside to take us home." Cutler turned back to me and I felt myself unsettled by the icy triumph in the bastard's smile. Although I rarely heed my brain's advice on word slippage, I kept silent. "That will be all, captain. I shall expect you to sail at the noontide. Good day."
Again my rebellous brain clamped my mouth, obviously not trusting me to return the insincere salutation without adding a retort that would have stood his silly wig on end. I managed a vaguely numbed nod, but he averted his eyes, already dismissing me, no doubt.
What the bloody hell was I missing here?
Much like a puffed-up goose, he strode through the large wood doors, but she hesitated, her eyes fixed upon my hand.
It wasn't likely that she was admiring my ring, having seen it rather close before.
Oh, the envelope, of course.
"Jack, look at the seal," she whispered, glimpsing despairingly over her shoulder at her sinister sibling's voice issuing departing orders to his guards. "It's the Crown's seal!"
"The Crown's seal?" It may have sounded dumb, but honestly, I didn't think I'd heard her quite right.
Sure enough, there it was stamped in wax in the center across the wrinkled folds. I'd never seen it before and gawked long enough for her to cross the short space between us, tear it open and shove it rather roughly into my face. Well, I can't read anything like that so I shook it out of her hand.
Not that it really helped me. The Crown's silly penchant for extra-wordiness is not only eye-straining, but bloody impossible to get through if you're in any kind of hurry.
"So what's this, then? No one's gotten orders for Africa before," I groaned, not feeling especially honored by the Crown's approval. When she didn't reply, I snatched her wrist before she could move away. "Bloody orders say 'shipment of special cargo'. If I did not know this company has had no dealings in slavery, might I not be suspicious, eh?"
She pulled at her trapped wrist, head bowed low and cowardly unable to meet my eyes. "I have to go, captain."
That stung me, but I persisted. I get like that when vexed. "I do bloody know this, right?" She still wouldn't look at me and he'd be back any minute. "What does the Crown want with me, woman?"
"Nothing," she admitted, finally raising her head to me. Bloody hell, but her eyes were haunted! "Nothing," she repeated, and this time I heard remorse. "My brother's shameful greed will give the King everything that he seeks from the East India Trading Company."
Not really my answer, but it made for good business sense – in a frightening kind of way- when one took time to think about it. "Ah, so through sea trade, the Crown gets control of the Caribbean," I realized, then pondering further. "Oh, right, and... you as well?"
Her head shook in weak denial, a few wiggly strands of dark hair tossing loose from that unattractive knot at her collar. Her captive wrist sagged in my grip. "I leave for London in nine days," she confessed. "Before that, Cutler wanted you gone."
"And why's that?"
"Oh, Jack," she sighed, lowering her eyes again, "haven't you guessed by now what my brother's capable of?"
I let her wrist fall, the sudden knot in my belly trying to match the size of the one tying up her hair. I'm not stupid; I had actually guessed, but didn't choose to believe it.
Not until now, that is.
"Jack, please, I must go. That clumsy lass that you saved from a stampeding horse is no more. She's gone."
So she'd finally confirmed what her brother's sickening smile had been saying. Cutler knew he'd won, the contentious cretin. His sister would marry into stodgy English aristocracy securing her greedy family's position, and making the Crown, no doubt, happy with all his new conquests.
And me? Ah, seems one merchant captain be sailing to Africa with the noontide, carrying along with him temptation for said clumsy lass remaining in the Caribbean – whether he chose to or not.
The bloody unfairness of it overwhelmed me then, twisting my insides until my chest ached and I had to fight for my next breath. She must have seen the parchment fall to the floor because her warm hand rested lightly on my forearm before I touched my throat. I might have even heard a soft, watery sob as she leaned in to kiss me. "Be safe, my sweet Jack, and I beg you do not try to see me again."
"Angelina…"
Of course, the lass had gone before I could think of much more, the voice of her fiendish brother echoing in the quiet hallways.
My heart says she'll be worthy of the Crown; my gut says the fop will betray it.
And me.
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AN: This is, of course, a more innocent Jack, a youth confused and inexperienced with subterfuge, politics or manipulation, but his first harsh lesson is beginning here.
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TBC:
LADY OF POWER 2 – CONSIDER HIS MARK MADE