Elizabeth Swann was barely fifteen, rather too hot, and outrageously bored. Her father's dinner parties-although "party" was a bit of a misnomer-we're usually dreary, but few had left her actually counting the stitches on her placemat. She wasn't seated by the most fascinating conversationalists, either. Mr. Peters, on her left, had
his head inconspicuously tipped forward and gentle snores echoed beneath his pompous hat. To her right was Captain Norrington, who hadn't any more to say to her than Mr. Peters.
"Ergo, the colonel was clearly within his rights to do such, wouldn't you quite agree?" Norrington was saying to a man who looked like he was trying to pretend he understood.
Elizabeth gave up on eavesdropping on such a dull discussion and slumped back in her chair. This earned her an imploring look from her father, a most familiar expression. Now, Elizabeth, that look said, be good now. Back straight, smile nicely. Please. Elizabeth had long learned to obey, which she did now. Not for fear of her kindly father's wrath, more of pity. He really was trying, after all. She pasted a sugary smile on her painted lips and tried to make small talk with her nearest waking dinner companion.
"So, Captain Norrington! You must tell me all about the...er...that..." Elizabeth's painfully false grin drooped like the first raindrop ruining a determinedly sunny day. She had a habit of starting sentences without thinking them through. Norrington looked alarmed at this sudden enthusiastic greeting.
"Forgive me, Miss Swann, I don't believe I caught that?"
"Pray forget it. I'm awful at this, aren't I, Captain?"
Norrington only smiled, but not mockingly. He leaned in and lowered his voice confidentially. "It's a difficult and tedious art, Miss Swann. You ought to be glad you are blessed with more interesting gifts. And you may certainly call me James, if you wish."
Elizabeth nodded. She would call him by his name for about twenty minutes, then
promptly forget this level of casualness and return to polite civility at their very next meeting. At least, that's what she supposed she should do. That's how James always treated her.
"Interesting gifts, hardly. My father forever wishes me to play the clarinet, and it's frightfully lackluster. I beg not to even go into my attempts at flower arranging." Elizabeth ventured to cross her arms in a boldly unladylike way and sit back in her chair.
"Well, what would you like to do?" James inquired.
"I...well..."
"Go on,"
"I should very much like to be one of those chorus girls in the theatre. The ones that are always in the musicals dressed as flowers or woodland creatures or little mice?"
"Is that so?" James asked, rather surprised but obviously pleased. "What a lovely ambition. Just this past spring my dear friend Ariadne* talked be into doing one of those plays; it was most enjoyable."
"You two snogged quite incessantly."
"Er, yes, we did, didn't we? It was pure acting, understand." The captain suddenly shrunk back into his shell a little at this frank assessment.
"Of course. I could never do it, though." Elizabeth sighed.
"Kiss Ariadne? I should hope not!" James said, a hint of cautious teasing.
"I mean be in a show!"
"Well, I don't see why not. You're very musical."
Elizabeth turned a little red and stumbled over her next whispered words. "It's so embarrassing to admit, but I couldn't handle all those people watching. I would be terrified."
"Everyone is afraid of something, Miss Swann." James assured her.
"What are you afraid of?"
James pondered this a while. "Sitting in a tree," he finally stated decisively.
"I...I beg your pardon?" Elizabeth asked, thoroughly bewildered and not sure if
she had heard him correctly. James only smiled thoughtfully.
"Sitting in a tree. Or rather, what sitting in a tree is composed of. Particularly when one is a child. Shall I elaborate, Miss Swann, or am I, perhaps, boring you?"
"Not at all."
"We'll then," he took a deep breath before letting the words flow off his tongue, "I would start with bugs that live in trees. Disgusting, frankly. Being forgotten up there. Seeing an apple that falls to the ground just as your fingertips reach it. Seeing a horizon that you know you may never reach. Unexpected falls. Falls that are expected, but no less disappointing. Being stuck. Moving too fast. Getting so high up you forget your friends down below. Seeing the wood that holds you rot. Having one reliable branch that decides to snap and let you tumble down. Always being within view of the muddy ground that you came from, no matter how high you climb. Watching leaves shrivel and discolor and perish unceremoniously. Seeing that sweet girl across the street climb into another tree, a tree that will let her fall at any second, and you just want her to come sit with you in your strong, unceasing tree instead. But she won't."
Elizabeth was at a loss for words as she stared at a now rather flushed James. When had a wordsmith, a poet, emerged from the
quiet, upstanding officer? James suddenly looked as thought fearful hem had said a bit too much for the standards of propriety he thrived on.
"Er...forgive me, Miss Swann. I can't say I'm sure where that came from," he
stammered.
"Do you think like this often?" Elizabeth asked, genuinely curious.
"Often?" James echoed. The edges of the word rose with surprise. "No."
"You ought to."
*Mini crossover to my series, Ariadne Tales. Yes, the same play referenced in Chapter 6.