Disclaimer:I'm far too lazy to raise the amount of money required to buy the rights off of Disney. Oh, and I don't own Blackadder either…
The Legacy of Pandora's Box
"Good evening, sir," the boy said cheerfully as the door was opened by a rather bored-looking gentleman.
The butler looked at the lad dressed in respectable, if slightly unfashionable clothing, and the corner of his lip curled in distaste.
"What is the nature of your business with my master, Mister…?"
"Oh, I've no business with your master at all," the boy rushed to explain. "I'm here to collect Miss Isabelle."
The servant's eyes narrowed in distrust, and the boy stifled a sigh of irritation; it was a very common occurrence for him to be looked down upon by his supposed betters, or to be asked to turn out his pockets. He had the look of a common thief about him, or so his mother had said, which the boy thought was rather unfair, as it was it was only a third of the time that he had actually taken things which hadn't belonged to him. He did so hate stereotypes.
The butler's thin pale lips curved into a sneer before slowly opening, no doubt to reprimand the young scoundrel for attempting to debase the young lady's honour in such a way, when Miss Isabelle herself appeared at the butler's elbow, her blue eyes dancing as she called out the unwanted guest's name.
"Now, really, Beckham," she scolded, pushing him aside in a very unladylike manner. "You really ought to be a tad more trusting; Jack really is here to escort me to the theatre this evening."
Beckham glanced scornfully down at the boy's shabby clothing, but he held his tongue. "Of course, Miss Livingstone," he said to the young girl, followed by a false apology to the working-class boy that certainly wasn't suitable company for an unmarried maid of Miss Isabelle's standing. "Shall I alert your mother of Master Jack's arrival?"
"Why, whatever for?" Isabelle asked, stepping past the servant and allowing Jack a full view of the flowered ivory silk that was her dress.
"I do believe it is the custom for mothers to chaperone their daughters whilst they are in the company of… suitors, Miss."
Miss Isabelle paused, an expensively-clad foot on the threshold, her wide smile fading somewhat from her beautiful face, whilst Jack's eyes darted up to meet her own. It was clear to Beckham that neither of the two had anticipated such an obstacle, and he began to doubt that they ever had any intention of visiting the theatre in the first place.
"Beckham…" Isabelle began, turning on her heel and looking at the servant meaningfully. "Surely you don't mean to suggest that Jack is the sort to… to take advantage of a girl the first instant they are alone together?"
"Certainly not, Miss Livingstone."
"Good, because I can assure you that Jack is an upstanding young gentleman, with purely honourable intentions."
All three participants of the conversation knew that this was a lie; however, the only party willing to admit it followed the laws of decorum to such a degree that he had to rack his subservient brains for another tactic with which to expose the young lovers' lie; after all, he certainly couldn't confront them outright.
"Isabelle," a soft female voice called, and Jack stopped himself from rolling his eyes in frustration as the light, feminine footsteps of another interloper approached.
Mrs. Livingstone herself, he thought bitterly, silently wondering how it was that every member of Isabelle's household was slowly but surely congregating on the doorstep. That was aristocrats for you; so uptight they wouldn't even allow their daughters to leave the house unchaperoned. Didn't they realise that his intentions were actually honourable? He had absolutely no interest in her fortune, let alone planned to marry into it; her beauty was what had attracted him to her, and all he wanted to do was get her into bed—was that really so wrong?
"Good evening," the lady of the house said as her blue eyes fell upon Jack, who shifted nervously whilst wondering why the mother was not at all surprised to catch her only daughter attempting to sneak out of her home with a common scoundrel. "Isabelle, why haven't you invited your handsome friend inside? Surely you've been raised better than that!"
"Mother—" Isabelle began, clearly upset to have her plans so greatly interfered, but the woman ignored her.
"And Beckham!" she admonished, turning towards the impassive servant. "Surely my husband isn't paying you to simply stand in doorways and block our guests' entrance? Step aside."
The butler did so with a polite apology, bowing as Lady Livingstone placed two manicured hands on her daughter's shoulders and steered her back into the building. Isabelle cast one last, desperate glance back at her lover and beckoned furiously with one white hand that he follow—also another unladylike gesture, Jack thought to himself as he stepped past the politely glaring butler.
"And fetch my husband, Beckham," Lady Livingstone called over her shoulder, smiling at the reluctantly trailing Jack as she spoke. "I believe he's in his study, attempting to cheat the taxman again!"
Jack wasn't certain if this last was said in earnest or in jest; he decided, for the good of his mental health, not to attempt to find out.
"Sit yourself down, Master…?" the lady asked as she forced her own reluctant daughter into a chair with a slightly muffled squeak of indignation.
"Mother, this really isn't ne—"
"Oh really, Isabelle!" the mother reprimanded, sitting herself gracefully down on a chaise longue of sea green supported by a pair of beautiful bare-breasted mermaids of deep gold.
"Mary!" the mother called, reaching out and pulling on a conveniently-placed cord. "Mary! Where is that girl?"
A maid, Mary, Jack had reason to assume, entered, curtseying and respectfully enquiring what it was her mistress required.
"Tea, of course," Lady Livingstone replied, her voice reproachful but not unkind. "And the most potent liquor you can find for my husband." She cast a sideway glance at Jack, her blue eyes twinkling merrily. "I suspect he'll need it," she added grimly, and Isabelle resolutely stuck out her bottom lip in a pout.
"It's unladylike to scowl, Belle," the mother told her daughter. "All those governesses and tutors and dancing-masters really were just a waste of money, weren't they? Honestly, one would hardly believe that in a few months you'll be making your debut; you've the mannerisms of a child half your age."
Isabelle's scowl, which Jack found really rather adorable, only deepened further, and Lady Livingstone tutted in exasperation.
"And a child raised in a common bawdy-house at that," she added, and the girl's face flushed a brilliant shade of red as she glanced nervously at Jack.
"Mother," Isabelle began once more, "is it really necessary to invite Father? Surely he's more pressing matters to attend to…" Her voice was calm, even and detached, but Jack's trained ears could detect a slight undertone of… Well, it was apparent to any fool with ears and eyes that Isabelle clearly wished her father remained elsewhere.
Lady Livingstone's lips curled into a mischievous smile which Jack, despite knowing full well that the woman was probably more than twice his age and certainly old enough to be his mother, found quite appealing. Then again, she looked young; what was more, she was almost identical to her daughter. The only difference that he could really see was the manner in which each female carried herself; Isabelle acted like any other young girl, confident yet distinctly awkward, whilst Lady Livingstone had the regal air of one who was utterly at ease with herself.
The parlour door opened, and a dark man dressed in sombre yet clearly refined clothing entered. His dark eyes swept about the room before finally resting on Jack, who resisted the urge to flinch at the open hostility displayed there. Lord Livingstone's brown eyes flickered back to his blue-clad wife, who smiled formally up at him, raising her hand as he approached.
"My lord," she greeted, bowing her head as he raised her fingers to his lips. Jack resisted the urge to sneer at the formal behaviour; the two acted as though they had only been introduced at a ball the previous night, not as if they'd been married for seventeen years with a sixteen-year-old child! …And yet there was something between them, a sort of fleeting spark that was quickly subdued, something intimate which both man and wife had immediately repressed…
Jack mentally shook his head, silently damning the aristocracy's stupidity; when those fools were lucky enough to be wed to someone that they'd actually cared for, they immediately suppressed it, as to love your spouse was not the done thing. Jack was certain that Mr. Livingstone had a mistress somewhere he very probably cared very little for, just because, being a wealthy lord, it was what was expected of him; and it wouldn't have surprised him if Lady Livingstone herself had a secret lover, not because she didn't love her husband, but because she wished to make him jealous.
Bloody aristocrats.
"Father," Isabelle began as the man walked pass his serene wife and settled himself into a high-backed chair carved in the fashionable Rococo style, "I'll like to introduce you to Jack—"
"Jack?" the man echoed, his voice a deep baritone laced with disbelief. "Oh, 'Jack' is it?"
"There's nothing wrong with the name 'Jack' Nate, as you well know," the lady said gently. She turned back to her daughter's disrespectable companion with a soft smile that actually made his pulse quicken. Well, he could hardly be blamed; Lady Livingstone's vivid blue eyes stood out in stark contrast to her fashionably pale skin and russet hair. The dress that she wore was plain silk, more bourgeois than aristocratic; clearly a gown to be worn indoors, but, as was the fashion, the square décolletage was low, revealing more of her soft, ample bosom than was decent. Especially when she breathes, Jack thought, feeling his palms begin to sweat. And she breathes quite regularly…
It took him a moment or two, but Jack soon realised that his sweetheart's mother was talking.
"…and that's truly the only reason why my husband isn't fond of the name Jack," she concluded, smiling amicably at him as she sipped delicately from expensive china.
But how—? he thought, his gaze now fixated on the fine teacup that rested in Lady Livingstone's lap.
"Why Jack," Mrs. Livingstone suddenly asked, sounding somewhat concerned, "are you not fond of tea?"
It was only then that Jack had realised that, whilst his eyes had been somewhat… consumed by the woman's regularly swelling chest, Mary the maid had entered the parlour, scattered beverages amongst the occupants of the room, and inconspicuously exited without his ever noticing. But by God's teeth, she truly was a beauty—or perhaps Jack, being naught more than a lad of sixteen who had only once seen a member of the fairer sex naked several months before, was simply inexperienced with women.
This sudden brainwave reminded him of why he was here in this lavishly decorated parlour in the first place, and he cast a guilty look in Isabelle's direction, silently praying that she hadn't noticed where his eyes had so recently been focused, only to be somewhat relieved to discover that she was staring glumly down into her own slightly steaming mug. His eyes then travelled to his sweetheart's father, who had silently been scowling throughout his wife's affable small talk, dividing his time between assessing his daughter's suitor and consuming copious amounts of a fine amber liquid that Jack suspected, but wasn't entirely certain, was whisky.
"I daresay," Lady Livingstone said suddenly, her blue eyes darting towards the handsome clock that stood at the other end of the room. "It is getting rather late, don't you agree? You might miss the play! Tell me, my darling," she said to her daughter, "exactly what do you plan on seeing?"
Isabelle was silent for a moment, racking her lovely little brains. "The Beggar's Opera," she said at last. "At Drury Lane."
Lady Livingstone's face broke into a wide smile. "Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "A wonderful comedy, truly, a masterpiece. A bit too common for your father's taste though," she added with a disapproving glance in her husband's direction. "Nate, didn't you say when we first attended that you found it 'shamelessly plebeian'?"
The husband looked up from his swirling liquor and met his wife's eyes. "I told you that it was clearly written in plebeian taste," he corrected darkly.
"So I suppose I must chaperone alone, shan't I?" she tartly retorted. "Very well; Isabelle!" she added, so sharply that the girl actually jumped.
"Yes, Mother?" she asked politely, shakily setting her teacup back onto its saucer.
"I've a lovely necklace of diamonds and pearls which would look positively darling on you in that white gown," she said, now looking fondly at her only child. "And of course, you know how fond I am of your company whilst Sarah is dressing me; it's frightfully tedious when one simply dresses and undresses without another intelligent soul to talk to."
Isabelle bowed her dark head in something akin to resignation, setting her tea down onto the tray balanced on the low table before her. "As you wish," she replied, rising and smoothing her ivory skirts.
"Father," she said stiffly, curtseying sweetly in the man's general direction. He only nodded in response, his dark eyes fixed on a very nervous Jack.
"Oh, and Nate," Lady Livingstone added as she rose from her own seat. "Do try and keep our guest entertained whilst we are away, won't you? I shan't be long."
Mr. Livingstone skilfully turned a snigger of disbelief into a persistent cough, and nodded gravely. "You've been a wonderful hostess, my dear wife," he said decorously. "I can only hope that my host is half as accomplished."
"Oh, what a terribly shameless flatterer you are," she said playfully before sweeping away. "Come now Isabelle—no, through the dining room—Honestly, child, what am I ever going to do with you? Didn't you hear me tell Mary to scrub the foyer's floor?"
Well, Jack certainly hadn't; then again, his mind had been somewhat occupied at that point…
As soon as the dining room doors had shut, it was as though the world had shrunk to just the parlour and the grandfather clock's regular ticking. Jack smiled up at the man, only to be greeted by a stony glare from the gentleman's direction.
"It's a… a lovely home you have, sir," the boy said at long last.
"Stand when you address your betters, lad," Livingstone snapped, and Jack jumped. "Have you been taught no manners?"
Jack thought it best not to respond, and the two men lapsed into uncomfortable silence once more.
"Tell me, lad," Livingstone said suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful, "what is your current line of employment?"
Jack was uncertain of how to answer. He finally settled on honesty; after all, was it not the best policy?
"I've not yet entered any line of work yet, sir," he said detachedly before remembering to rise to his feet, which he clumsily did in indecent haste. "I'm apprenticed to a cartographer by the name of John Steele."
Livingstone looked at Jack once more, his face suddenly thoughtfully.
"Cartography, eh?" he said at last. "A skilled profession—I take it you've had a fine education, then?"
"Well, sir, I suppose it is in some ways better than what others might have access to," he replied modestly.
"There's more to you than first meets the eye, isn't there?" he observed.
"Nothing remarkable, I assure you sir," Jack answered.
Once more, the consistent ticking of the clock descended upon then.
"What sort of education did you receive, boy?" Livingstone asked at last. "I take it you've studied mathematics and geography, but what of the sciences?"
Jack hesitated once more.
"More like dabbled than studied, sir."
"And languages?"
"French, sir."
"That's all?" Livingstone enquired. "No Latin or Greek? Just French?"
"Well sir, as I've said before, merely dabbled," Jack answered truthfully.
The father let out a slight snort of disapproval, taking a long sip from his fine glass before continuing.
"A gentleman should have a thorough knowledge of the classics," Livingstone told the boy, stressing the word gentleman. "The Romans and Greeks continue to have a profound impact on our lives in this day and age. Particularly the Greeks; some of their teachings may be of particular relevance to you and my daughter." And he fixed Jack with such a glance that the boy found it nigh impossible to keep silent.
"Really, sir?" the boy asked as the gentleman took yet another sip of his golden liquid. "In what way?"
"Well the Greeks, my boy, wrote in legend of a terrible container in which all the evils of the world were trapped. How truly prophetic they proved to be—the only thing that those toga-wearing ponces got wrong was the name. For you see, the Greeks called this particular container 'Pandora's Box'—when of course, they truly meant 'Jack's Breeches'."
"'Jack's Breeches', sir?" the boy asked, more than a little sceptical.
"Aye, Jack… what's your surname?"
Jack hesitated, uncertain of why the father wanted his surname. "…Fielding," he said at last, unconvincingly.
"Jack… Fielding?" the man repeated doubtfully, and the boy inclined his head in confirmation. "Right then; 'Jack Fielding's Breeches' was the true name."
"Was it really, sir?" the boy asked doubtfully.
"Are you calling me a liar, lad?" the father asked dangerously.
"No, sir," Jack said quickly. "Please, continue with your lie—legend."
"I think I will, thank you very much. Now, where was I? Ah yes; legend has it that a Greek woman by the name of Pandora—by which they obviously meant an English girl by the name of Isabelle Livingstone—opened her box—or your breeches, if you will—and on that devastating day that she did so, all the world turned to darkness because of her fatal curiosity."
The father paused to look closely at the boy, who seemed unable to decide whether he was more amused or disturbed by the classical tale being so casually rewritten before him.
"Jack Fielding, I now entrust you with the unenviable task—for sake of all humanity—of never allowing your or Isabelle's curiosity to lead you to undo your breeches; nothing of interest lies therein."
There was a slight pause in which Jack decided he was more amused than disturbed.
"Mr Livingstone," he said at last, "I understand your concern; a working-class scamp such as myself can never be a suitable match for your daughter from a social and financial point of view. But let me assure you, sir, that my intentions towards your daughter are primarily honourable; I have no intention of impregnating her with my spawn and marrying her fortune."
The father still found this answer to be less than satisfactory. Primarily honourable? he silently repeated to himself. The implication that Jack Fielding's intentions were anything but was still there.
"That does quell my concerns, somewhat," he said at last.
"'Twas my intention," Jack answered somewhat prematurely. The father shot him a suspicious glance, but kept his doubts to himself, and soon the two males lapsed into an uncomfortable silence broken only by the regular ticking of the clock.
"She certainly is taking a while, is she not?" Jack said at last, his voice croaking silently from sheer unease combined with a lack of use.
The father shot him an exasperated look. "Of course she is," he snapped. "She is, after all…" and he hesitated.
"A woman?" Jack supplied, hoping to win over his sweetheart's parent through a male exasperation of the fairer sex's vanity.
"Getting her chastity belt fitted," the father corrected, as though such an event occurred most regularly within his household.
Jack flinched, uncertain as to whether to laugh or cry. "A chastity belt?" he repeated disbelievingly, and the father nodded.
"Yes, a chastity belt," he confirmed.
"…You can't honestly expect me to believe she has a chastity belt," Jack insisted, although something greatly resembling horror caused his voice to tremble slightly.
The father shrugged. "Her mother's Italian," he replied swiftly, "and you know what these foreigners are like."
Jack blinked, now feeling most inconvenienced. How was he going to get a chastity belt off? It wasn't as if he'd had much practice with those particular foreign contraptions. What would he need? A hammer? A chisel? An anvil? And then he'll have to put it back again…
No, Jack finally decided; whilst it was true that Isabelle was one of the most beautiful girls he'd ever come across, no woman was worth such trouble. Besides, Mr. Livingstone was rather disturbing, Mrs. Livingstone was distractingly attractive, and Isabelle herself hadn't really seemed quite fond of the idea in the first place.
"Speaking of mothers," he said, thinking quickly, "I've just realised that I must attend to her, post-haste. I'm sorry to say that I will be unable to accompany Isabelle to the theatre this evening."
"Oh, what a pity," the father said, feigning disappointment. "How about Friday instead?"
"Well unfortunately, sir," Jack said quickly, "my most pressing matter is a long-term… appointment."
"Whatever could be the matter that causes your mother to have such great need of you?" the father asked politely.
"She's dying, sir."
"…She's dying?"
"Yes sir," Jack assured the man. "I would have mentioned it sooner, but it unfortunately slipped my mind."
"Most unfortunate," the father agreed, regally rising from his seat and extending a hand. "Well, I shan't keep you, young Jack, with such a pressing responsibility to see to. Shall I call for Beckham to show you out?"
"No thank you, sir," Jack replied quickly. "I'll show myself out." And he bowed briefly before darting to the door in almost indecent haste. He paused once, and looked back over his shoulder at where the gentleman stood watching him.
"Give Isabelle my sincerest apologies," he asked of the father.
"I certainly shall," he replied. And then Jack was gone.
The father allowed a smirk to steal across his lips the moment the misbegotten rascal was out of his sight. Feeling the victorious delight at having chased off another potential suitor, he turned back to face the dining room doors which his daughter had disappeared through, and his grin immediately vanished without a trace; for the two doors had been flung wide open, and framed between them was the daughter herself, looking rather horrified.
"Oh, Papa!" she gasped. "Not again! That's the fifth this year!"
"And this year only started last week," her father said pointedly, and she flushed crimson, though her blue eyes remained locked on his brown.
"But I actually liked Jack," she protested, tears welling up in her big blue eyes, and he felt his heart break. Well, almost. "I knew Jack for far longer than the others—we met over a year ago! He's one of the stagehands."
"And he was obviously very fond of you as well," he agreed, "which was the problem, ironically."
"Oh, Papa!" she said again, too exasperated to think of more elaborate speeches. He smiled slightly and offered her his hand; she hesitated and then stepped completely into the parlour, slipping her delicate white fingers into his brown grip.
"You wouldn't want someone like him anyway," he assured her, kissing her palm affectionately, and her gaze softened slightly. "Considering how he only wants…" And here he paused, uncertain of how to proceed without offending her chaste ears. "And besides, Jack's such a common name," he said instead.
The daughter's eyes narrowed, and she snatched her hand from out of his grip. "Your name is Jack!" she imperiously reminded. "Your real name, that is—Jack Sparrow, not Nathaniel Livingstone!"
The man only shrugged. "That was a very long time ago," he justified. "I'm allowed to develop an aristocratic arrogance in eight years; it's only natural, considering that's what we are now."
"But—" she said, unable to find words passionate enough to express her fury without resorting to the cursing that her hypocritical father wouldn't allow in his home. She settled for flinging her hands up in a most petulant gesture, and dramatically flounced away.
"You'll thank me for this one day, Pearl," he called out merrily. "When you're an old maid surrounded by cats and other miscellaneous creatures from your personal menagerie, you'll thank me!"
The girl didn't even try to respond, choosing instead to bawl out, "Mother! He's done it again!" as she galloped up the stairs and into her parents' bedchamber, slamming the door shut to make a point.
Only then did she allow herself to collapse into hopeless laughter, throwing herself onto the bed where the older woman sat. The girl allowed herself to be scooped up into the woman's arms, the both of them attempting to smother their hysterical giggles lest the head of the household overhear and failing miserably. For you see, the two females of the house had planned all along to have the father rid his daughter of a charming but persistent suitor, and when they had exited the parlour with the excuse of preparing themselves for the outing, they had in actuality pulled up two chairs and settled themselves comfortably by the door whilst they eavesdropped on the conversation between the two Jacks.
"Pandora's Box!" the elder of the two repeated, gasping for breath, her voice having lost the overly-friendly quality of a middle-aged duenna and reverting to its far more pleasing chime. "Oh God, how does your father come up with these notions?"
"It's always something like that, isn't it, Sierra?" Pearl agreed, snuggling as comfortably into the woman's arms at sixteen as she did at eight. "And the chastity belt! I've never heard anything so ridiculous!"
"Well…" Sierra said, her voice serious, "if you're anything like what I was at your age, that wouldn't be such a terrible idea…"
Pearl squeaked vehemently in protest, the sound as adorable now as it was eight years ago. "I'm nothing like you were!" she assured the woman who was technically her stepmother (though in Pearl's personal opinion, she was a very satisfactory substitute for the real thing). It was odd that the girl would say such a thing, as she tended to go out of her way in a conscious attempt to emulate the woman her father had deemed worthy of being his spouse.
"So tell me, Pearl," the woman said, pulling away to look down at the pretty teenager. "What was wrong with this one?"
Pearl was silent for a moment, smooth forehead furrowed in deep thought.
"He reminded me of Papa," she said at last. "At first, that was what I liked about him, but then I realised that I'd rather not be married to Papa, much less share his bed, which was what Jack wanted."
Sierra merely rolled her eyes.
"I think Jack—your father, not that wanton little pup—does know what you're doing when you bring all these boys home."
"They just won't leave me alone," Pearl said sulkily. "And after that little soiree held at Esther Well's last month, there's been so many boys from all classes calling on me. I'm not encouraging them, Sierra, I swear I'm not!—Well, I try not to, any way—but they always…"
But whatever "they" always did, we shall never know, for at that very moment, an eight-year-old girl by the name of Pearl Sparrow woke up. She lay very still in the hammock, blinking confusedly up at the ceiling above her, and yawned.
What a strange dream, she thought to herself, frowning. Papa would never call himself Nathanial.
And of course, Pandora's Box and the chastity belt were a little odd, but not exactly as unusual as her Papa calling himself Nathaniel. Now that was just unnatural.
Her frown soon turned into a scowl of annoyance, and she was overcome by the urge to kick one thing (namely her father's genitals), jump on another (namely her father's current mistress's—Cate's—foot) and leap into the arms of a third party (namely, Sierra's). Of course, she wasn't about to do any of these things, being the sweet blue-eyed pouting pirate's daughter that she was, but she so very much wanted to. Particularly the last one; the past three weeks or so of following Cate around and avoiding Sierra were two tasks she'd very reluctantly undertaken. Her father had told her to stay away from Sierra, and she was a good girl; her father so rarely asked anything of her that the few times that he did, she was rather loathe to disobey.
Of course, that was before she had the Strange Dream; now that she'd dreamt it, and was reminded of the way things should be—not the hundreds of suitors or the Nathaniel Livingstone or the elevated social position, but rather, the fact that Sierra and her Papa were in love and she, little Pearl, was the centre of their world—well, that was the way things should be. Particularly the last part; her being the centre of the world was of meticulous importance, as without that, Pearl's Grand Plan of having Sierra wed her Papa would be rendered meaningless. After all, what's the point of having two of the most adulterating inhabitants of the Caribbean marry one another if they didn't have little Pearl to fawn over? It's not as if anyone actually married for love these days.
I'm being selfish, she thought suddenly, attempting to sit up in her rocking hammock before falling back down with a squeak as the ship tilted a little too dangerously for little Pearl's health.
I'm being selfish, she thought once more as she clung for dear life onto the material cocooning her. I should help Papa and Sierra fall in love not because I want to be loved and spoilt and worshipped like I deserve to be, but because they're already in love. However, as they're both adults, and therefore a little naïve in the ways of the world and—well, let's be honest, stupid—they don't know it yet.
Stupid grown-ups. Especially Papa—he doesn't even know how to shave properly. And when was the last time he cut his hair? Or combed it? What a strange, short little man my Papa is—but very sweet though. Especially when he pouts; I can't deny him anything then.
Her father really was quite adorable when he pouted.
But never mind that; Pearl was wide awake now, and she wanted nothing more than to bounce down to Sierra's cabin and leap into her arms and beg for forgiveness and plead with dear Sierra to take her back after the horrible way that she'd treated the woman. And if Sierra said 'no' (which Pearl very much doubted she would do, being the adorable and utterly undeniable creature that she was), then that was fine, for Pearl had a Cunning Plan, a Plan to beat all others, a Plan Which Cannot Possibly Fail, Pearl's own secret weapon that few are immune to, a weapon so powerful and accurate it rarely misses its target:
Pearl planned to pout. Now, Pearl was very proud of her Pout; she was certain that if Satan rose from the fiery depths of Hell to bring forth the end of the world tomorrow morning, Pearl could very easily make him postpone the apocalypse by another thousand years or so by very sweet, very strategic pouting. That was just how potent her Pout was.
It's not too late, Pearl thought to herself, knowing as she did that she'd clambered into the hammock early that evening. My Si-Si would still be awake…
Pearl swung herself out of the low-slung hammock and searched for her shoes, gathering up her various articles of clothing; all that Pearl had been wearing when she had retired was her shift, and she didn't see why she should bother dressing, as she'll only go back to sleep again. She tucked the bundle of clothing under her arm, and was just about to set off, when she felt something leap onto her bare foot.
Pearl froze, her pretty little face contorting in disgust. A rat… she thought, looking down nervously at her foot, only to find that it wasn't a rat at all; as a matter of fact, it was a… Well, it was some kind of sandy-coloured rodent, that's for sure.
And it's so sweet… she thought, bending down and hesitantly offering her little white fingers. The rodent paused, sniffed the outstretched digits, and rested its tiny little head against her thumb. Pearl squealed happily, flattening out her hand and offering it her palm, and it leapt on without another thought. She smiled down at the rodent, pleased with her new pet, and slowly straightened, placing it on the bundle of clothing she carried under one arm. She laughed as the odd creature immediately scrambled for a pocket to hide itself in. She'll show it to Sierra; perhaps Sierra would know what the creature was. Sierra was very clever as well as pretty, which was precisely why her Papa loved her so (even if he didn't know it yet).
She climbed carefully down the stairs of the Black Pearl, checking to make sure that her newfound friend hadn't fallen out every now and again, and snuck quietly onto the level where Sierra's cabin was located. Wouldn't Sierra be pleasantly surprised to open the door and find little Pearl standing there with a new friend under one arm?
"Pearl?"
The little girl jumped at the sudden voice from behind her, and spun around to come face to face with her own infamous Papa himself; Jack Sparrow, the Caribbean-based pirate captain who certainly knew how to pout. Except he wasn't pouting now; he was looking curiously down at his child, clearly wondering why she was up and about at such a late hour.
"What are you doing here?" she asked of him, her sharp little eyes immediately realising that he himself had only just awoken from the fact the his red headscarf and breeches were the only articles of clothing he was wearing. "I thought you stopped your night-time visits to Sierra weeks ago."
Jack looked rather uncomfortable, and Pearl sighed.
"Oh Papa, you lovesick old fool…" she patronised, reaching up and comfortingly patting his hand.
"Pearl, just because I'm sneaking down to Sierra's cabin in the middle of the night doesn't mean to say—"
At that very moment, the door of the only occupied cabin on that particular level of the ship flew suddenly open, and a fair-haired male was uncompromisingly thrown out.
"For God's sake Flavio, how many times must I say it!" an irate female voice asked. "I do not want to sleep with you! Now go!"
Jack looked down at his daughter at the same instant that she glanced up at him, and the two Sparrows shrugged.
"But Sierra—" Flavio began, but the woman was having none of it, and promptly slammed the door shut in the blond's face, ignoring his insistent pleading.
Now Flavio, for those of you sweet readers who do not know, was a recent addition to the Pearl's crew, the brother of Jack Sparrow's current pirating mistress, Cate. He's a very complex character, but all you really need know of him is that he likes fluffy animals, is uncertain of his true gender, has a habit of renaming various people he comes across, and is currently infatuated with two particular individuals aboard the Black Pearl, one of whom is Sierra…
"Jackia!"
…and the other of which was Jack Sparrow himself, God help the poor captain.
Pearl looked up at her Papa to see his face blanch; before she had a chance to comment, he'd scooped her and her little bundle up in one arm, spun on his heel, and darted back up the stairs as Flavio gave shameless chase.
Pearl squealed in a mixture of fear and delight as her father clung tightly to her whilst she in turn clung tightly to her clothing and new pet (who miraculously, had yet to slip out of the pocket he had crawled into), unable to stop herself giggling as her father ran for dear life in the general direction of his cabin. They were soon up on the deck, the salty sea breeze blowing through their dark hair, the stars twinkling brightly across the night sky, but Pearl never had the chance to fully appreciate the sheer romantic beauty of a night on the open sea, for her father's frantic pace only increased as his cabin loomed into view.
It was only then that Pearl's sand-coloured rodent friend had leapt out of Pearl's bundled clothing, and she watched in disappointment over her father's shoulder as the creature leapt into Flavio's outstretched hand.
"Bernard!" the man cooed on seeing the creature, and he slowed slightly, the rodent having pushed all thoughts of 'Jackia' from his mind.
It was at that very intimate moment that Jack flung himself into the safe haven of his cabin, slammed shut and leaned back against the doors in a sort of last-minute barricade, and gently allowed little Pearl to slip from his vice-like grip as he panted heavily.
"You're too pretty for your own good, Papa…" Pearl sighed in exasperation, shaking her head as she watched her Papa turn and move away from the door the better to lock up his cabin.
He merely looked down at the child, an eyebrow raised.
"Could say the same for you, poppet," he replied, moving forward once more to rest his ear against the door. "Sounds like Cate's got him…" he murmured to himself, sounding more than a little relieved. Then he glanced back down at Pearl, and his face grew stern.
"And what were you doing sneaking about my ship in the middle of the night?" he asked the child evenly.
Pearl looked defiantly back up, and stuck out her sweet little chin.
"Why Papa, I could say the same for you," she told him superciliously. "Surely you know better than to be wondering around in the middle of the night, much less half naked; what sort of example would it set me, a blue-eyed and easily impressionable young innocent?"
A slight grin tugged at the corner of Jack's lips, and he chuckled.
"You're anything but innocent," he told her, patting her silky hair as he strode pass the child, who followed him to the bed with the bundle of clothing in her arms, which she set down on a chair before crawling onto her father's mattress quite uninvited.
"And what do you think you're doing?" the man asked of his daughter as he uncorked a bottle of liquor with his teeth.
A very plebeian gesture, she thought fondly, recalling the Strange Dream at once. Aloud, she said, "Going to bed, of course. You don't want your only acknowledged daughter to stay awake all night, do you?"
"What makes you think you're my only acknowledged daughter?" Jack challenged as he sat himself on the mattress beside her, the bottle of rum still in his hand. "You might have an entire brood of sisters running about, I'll have you know, and what would make you so special then?"
Pearl pretended to think for a moment. "I'm the sweetest," she said at last. "I know I'm the sweetest, because I am the most darling creature to have ever been conceived—and you should be very proud of the fact that you'd spawned me, Papa. Aren't you pleased you decided to spend that hot, humid, Caribbean night in one of Tortuga's finest brothels after all?"
She smiled happily as Jack flashed his teeth in a brief grin of embarrassment; he always got uncomfortable whenever she, a mere child of eight who was actually raised in a brothel, mentioned fornication. It was probably why she'd hinted at it so much.
"Couldn't sleep in your hammock then?"
"I did…" Pearl admitted, "But then I had a very Strange Dream that woke me up."
"Is that right?" he murmured, looking at the child out of the corner of his eye. "What about?"
"It was—" Pearl began, and then stopped, hesitating. She didn't want to tell her Papa that she dreamt that he had married Sierra and that the three of them were masquerading as London aristocrats, and that he had a very odd way of scaring off suitors. What if he laughed at her?
"It was a very Strange Dream," she began again, "and it reminded me of you and Sierra, and that's all I'm going to tell you, because the rest of it is just odd…
"And it's only fair you let me stay the night with you, since you never ever hold me as I sleep or anything, and tomorrow you're leaving me in my new home in Jamaica with your friend, so this is the last night we'll have together…" Pearl finished softly, and felt her little heart silently break at the thought. The only reason her father had taken her out of the brothel was so that he could deposit her with an old friend, someone by the name of Forrester, in Kingston Town, Jamaica. Her Papa had never intended to raise her himself, and that thought—the fact that he didn't love her enough to want her to be always with him—tore her little soul apart.
Jack shrugged, stuck the cork back into the bottle, dropped it on the bedside cabinet, and shifted further onto the bed, a bare arm outstretched. "C'mere, darling," he said, almost tenderly, and Pearl obeyed, her blue eyes slipping closed as he simply held her.
"Do you know, it's quite a coincidence; I also had a dream that reminded me of you and Sierra. It was so bloody queer that I woke up."
Pearl's sweet eyes slipped open a tiny fraction.
"Oh really?" she asked quietly as she nuzzled further into her father's embrace. "What was it about?"
Jack hesitated, clearly unwilling to divulge any more information.
"Well…" he said at last, "there was a mention of Pandora's Box and a few chastity belts, and that's as much detail as you're getting out of me on the subject."
The End
AN: A demonstration of the psychic bonds of the Sparrows… Like my other one-shot What's In A Name? this is a part of How My Perfect Life Was Inverted; a "deleted scene" as it were.
This little one-shot was inspired from the following quote taken from Blackadder the Third: Nob and Nobility:
Edmund: Baldrick, when did you last change your trousers?
Baldrick: (as if rehearsed) I have never changed my trousers.
Edmund: Thank you. (to Prince) You see, the ancient Greeks, Sir, wrote in legend of a terrible container in which all the evils of the world were trapped. How prophetic they were. All they got wrong was the name. They called it "Pandora's Box," when, of course, they meant "Baldrick's Trousers."
Baldrick: (to Prince) It certainly can get a bit whiffy, there's no doubt about that!
Edmund: We are told that, when the box was opened, the whole world turned to darkness because of Pandora's fatal curiosity. (to Baldrick) I charge you now, Baldrick: for the good of all mankind, never allow curiosity to lead you to open your trousers. Nothing of interest lies therein.