Author's Note: For convenience's sake I have combined the tavern and brothel into one physical location although I realize they are separate in the show. This story has a narrow focus, which largely excludes the other pirate crews and characters I wanted to give a lot of detail to Eleanor and Vane's history. It could be considered more or less canonical with a few minor exceptions. I hesitated to categorize it as "romance" because theirs is a turbulent one; the ending may not be tidy.
The Making of Eleanor Guthrie
Mid-summer, 1708 - New Providence Island
Eleanor, trusted to have several hours to herself each day, generally pleased to spend them out of doors. In particular, she liked to walk up and down the length of the wharf extending out into the sunshine-spattered sea; when her legs tired of the activity, she would simply stand on the edge of the docks and gaze into the pellucid teal-hued water below. With the breeze coming in from the ocean, it always smelled so much better than back in town.
Her father had never expressly said she mightn't go on the docks themselves—just not to the beach, and her feet had only touched sand for the few moments from the path before they hit the wooden planks of the wharf. She was a very literal girl, although she also realized quite well that most of the time she was not following the spirit of Richard Guthrie or Mr. Scott's rules. At thirteen, she had long ago concluded that if her father didn't care enough to oversee her upbringing and education himself (having put her in the charge of a house slave, though admittedly a capable one), Eleanor was not going to concern herself overmuch with which of her doings he would or wouldn't approve of.
There were so many kinds of people to watch when she tired of imagining mermaids and sea creatures in the waves. The wharf was usually bustling with activity, with the constant loading and unloading of endless crates and barrels from ships entering and leaving the bay, bound and shuffling slaves, whores flaunting their wares. Words were tossed around like weapons, swords were drawn at the slightest insults, fights arose as quickly as a summer storm—Eleanor had even seen men killed. None of it kept her from coming back. She had begun to make sense out of the language of commerce, the terms used in shipbuilding, even of the words and phrases brought back from distant shores. It was the other half of her education, wildly interesting and bearing little (if any) resemblance to the one she received from her books and Mr. Scott's patient tutelage. Though, honestly, her eyes and head sometimes ached after a few hours spent amidst all the color and motion and activity, and it was then a relief to return to the bland walls of her home and schoolroom.
No one had ever given her any trouble on the docks, though she was subject to lengthy stares from men who were new arrivals to Nassau. It did not occur to Eleanor to wonder why. She had grown accustomed to being stared at: a fair-skinned, well-dressed young English lady was rarely seen in these parts. Any girls about her age were brought off ships as slaves, in rags and ill-treated. She did not think of herself as an oddity, however; she was simply Richard Guthrie's daughter, a fact she would have told anyone who asked, though few spoke to her directly.
Despite her generally pragmatic nature, Eleanor was from time to time lonely, and could have wished for another girl or even an older woman to associate with. Mr. Scott was all very well, but she had questions that could not be brought to him or her father, the latter whom she might not see for days on end in any case. There was a cook and a maid in their house, but Eleanor didn't care for either of them; the maid she found intolerably stupid, and the cook shooed her out of the kitchens whenever she ventured near.
It was hot today, in the early afternoon, and Eleanor's back was sticky with clinging layers of undergarments. She tugged at the neck of her linen overdress, and loosened the straps of the bonnet meant to protect her face from the hot Bahaman sun. She was usually diligent about keeping the bonnet up so that her skin wouldn't obviously announce the amount of time she spent outdoors, but a few moments wouldn't hurt. Her golden hair, now uncovered, made a few heads turn.
"...That's the Ranger out there, ain't it?" She caught the scrap of an exchange between two men bearing woven baskets of fruit on their shoulders along the wharf. One of them paused to avoid bumping Eleanor as she darted past them. "Captain Vane coming in right now."
Her interest caught, Eleanor followed their gaze to the skiff approaching the docks. The name was one she'd heard before, though she'd not yet seen its owner.
There were several men in the small boat, one rowing with long, easy strokes to bring the craft quickly near where she was standing. She watched them, trying to decide which of the men was the captain, the one whose name had so many stories attached to it and so was often spoken in tones of fear and respect. Eleanor half-expected to be able to read his identity on Charles Vane's face.
A regular dockhand who knew Eleanor to be Richard's daughter came up and nudged her elbow, respectfully. "Best stay out of the way now, miss..."
"Captain Vane doesn't own the wharf, surely." She spoke with confidence, with no intention of being pert.
One at a time, the men vaulted over the side of the boat and atop the docks. Eleanor realized she did know which one was the captain, though she couldn't have said why; perhaps it was simply that the other two had more deferential postures.
He wasn't the tallest of the three. She noticed first a livid scar along the length of his forearm, and then his deep-set, intensely light blue eyes, when he met her gaze for a few long moments. She wondered if the story she'd heard about him cutting a piece of flesh from another man's body and eating it were true, and wrinkled her nose inadvertently.
They all brushed past her then, their boots making the boards vibrate under her feet, and the moment was over, just the drift of smoke from the captain's long tangled hair lingering into her nostrils.
She took a breath, looked after them, and saw Mr. Scott in the distance, coming down the hill. Even from there she could read the expression of mildly angry concern on his face.
Eleanor murmured a choice phrase she'd heard from the lips of pirates and whores alike, but never from any well-brought-up English ladies. Why had he chosen today to come looking for her? If only he could have come a little later he would have met her on the road and that wouldn't have been nearly as damning; she could have said she'd been anywhere.
Mr. Scott waited for her, his expression now composed, until she joined him on the path up by the bluffs. Eleanor gathered her skirts to ascend the hill. She decided she wouldn't bother to create a defense until he said something. He seemed in no hurry to speak, so they walked silently back the length of the road to the enclosure where the modest cottage sat.
Scott turned to her at last. "You know the docks are no place for a girl of your upbringing, Miss Eleanor. Your father would be horrified to have seen you where I did."
I have learned a great deal there, Mr. Scott. She thought about saying this, but instead said, calmly, "I am not a child any longer."
"But you are still very young." His dark forehead was wrinkled with the effort of forbearance. "And most impressionable. Have you gone there often?"
She shook her head in demure innocence. "I only went today because it was so hot. The breezes are cooler coming into the bay." She watched his face carefully to see the conflict play out over it. To tell her father, and accept some (or all) of the blame for her actions, or to allow her implicit permission to continue her visits. Because they both knew he could not forbid her to go, nor would she obey should he try.
At last he said, "I wish you would not return to the beaches. They are populated by most unsavoury personages, even during the day."
"They are the people my father does business with," Eleanor pointed out. "And they are the people I will do business with, when the time comes."
He looked more resigned than startled. "What do you know of such things? You know letters and figures, better than many do, but you will have no need to work. Mr. Guthrie has seen to that."
"I want to work—" Eleanor faced him squarely— "and I will."
He dismissed her with a sigh. In the cloakroom, Eleanor untied her bonnet straps, resigning herself to the rest of the warm afternoon spent indoors. But later, though her head was bent dutifully over the passage in the copybook in the study room, her thoughts turned back towards Captain Charles Vane. It pleased her that he had a face and a body now. The fierce pirate of repute was just a man after all.
She liked to know such things. She liked stories to be made real. It seemed to her that was how one truly learned.
1711
Serving at tables was not what Richard Guthrie had had in mind for his daughter when he granted reluctant consent that she help out more at the tavern, Eleanor knew. She was quite sure he'd pictured her safely at a desk keeping ledgers in the back, behind a solid wooden door and with Mr. Scott and an armed man or two in attendance. She did that, too, of course. But now, at the age of sixteen and with even less patience for sitting at a desk all day than she'd had when younger, she was taking matters into her own hands.
Too much was wasted when the maids were serving. It wasn't their rum, they didn't have to pay for it; they would toss it down their own throats or pour it out on the floor as soon as serve it again. Someone had to set an example.
Eleanor unloaded a platter of food from her left arm, to appreciative growls from the hungry patrons at one table, and picked up a tankard from a nearby bench as she passed by, sniffing its meagre contents judiciously. Unspoiled. A knot was building between her shoulders, reminding her that she was tired; the moon had long since risen, the heat of the day dissipated, but it was still very hot with the tavern fires and the multitude of lit candles.
She paused for a moment to rub the base of her back with her one free hand, feeling the damp material and briefly longing for a soak in her tub upstairs. That could wait until tomorrow. Tonight was very busy; there were several ships' crews in and she hated to think of the poor service and inaccurate accounting that would go on if she were to leave now.
She attended a few more tables, rather absently, running through some figures in her head as she served and poured. Most of the men were known to her by now and she was able to move about freely without the need to give anyone too much individual attention. Men were men, after all—many of them in varying stages of drunkenness and while they knew quite well that she was the untouchable governor's daughter, she had learned early on not to smile too deeply at anyone, even ones who pleased her eye. And thus far, none had pleased it enough thus far to induce her to bring one upstairs.
None of the men, anyway.
There had been Max, one of Mr. Noonan's favorite girls. Eleanor's first friend, last year, and only lover. She wasn't sure what they were to each other these days. Max had neither the freedom nor the inclination to be exclusive, and Eleanor's practicality (or perhaps, she sometimes wondered, a lack of genuine attachment) prevented her from any jealousy when Max was unavailable. It was just the way things were.
Max was beautiful, generous; Eleanor confided in her, yet never knew if she completely trusted her. Perhaps they were too much alike. Max possessed a shrewd head for business and occasionally shocking flares of ambition, though she tried to conceal the latter.
Eleanor caught a glimpse of Max now by the far wall, laughing with practiced artifice at the attempts of some fool trying clumsily to be suave. Since it all came down to fucking in the end, it amused Eleanor how some of the younger men tried so hard to entertain the girls. The whores were there to entertain them, and if the women had to spend time enduring well-meant gallantries, they were essentially draining money from their own pockets. Moreover, they were likely to receive at the least a tongue-lashing from Mr. Noonan, who had forbidden the display of marked preferences.
Distracted, Eleanor poured an amount of rum from the flagon she was holding into the mugs of those at the table at her side. Abruptly, warm fingers circled her wrist, jerking her arm back just a little—not quite enough to send her off-balance, but enough to startle her. It had been a long time since anyone had been brave or stupid enough to touch her while she was working, and she turned her head, preparing to send a coldly furious blaze of eyes at the offender since the grip on her arm was unrelenting, and trying to struggle free would indicate fear or weakness.
"That fresh?" His voice was low, gravelly like stones rubbing on each other, and not one she recognized, but as she stared harder into the dim alcove she saw the face of the Ranger's captain. She was momentarily frozen, unsure how to proceed. In the year she had been working at the tavern, it was the first time she had encountered Captain Vane among the patrons.
His grip tightened, reminding her she was standing in silence, not answering his question.
"Of course," Eleanor said, lifting her chin, hearing herself a bit high and unnatural. She caught Max's wary glance from across the room. Vane's tablemates were a man with an intelligent but vaguely sardonic face and a person whose smaller form could have indicated a woman, though shrouded in a greatcoat and slouchy hat it was hard to tell. "This establishment does not offer anything of less than the highest quality."
"You're responsible for this...establishment?"
There were a few pairs of eyes on them now, though the din of conversation and raillery around had not diminished. Yet. It would, if she were to make a misstep. Eleanor shifted with discomfort. Damn the man, his fingers were like a gradually constricting bracelet. "Yes," she said, steadily. "I am."
"Then you'll taste it for me first." He held up his mug.
"Let me go," she retorted.
He did, and Eleanor resisted the desire to rub her freed wrist. She took the drink, repressed the surge of nausea in her stomach and tipped back a hearty gulp of the rum. A trail of fire wormed down her throat. She forced the tightest of smiles between taut teeth. His eyes were assessing; if this was a test she wasn't about to come short of the mark.
"It tastes good to me," she said, raising the drink like a toast.
She was completely unprepared for him to capture her wrist again and press the inside of it casually against his mouth. "You taste good to me."
The audacity of the gesture rendered her temporarily speechless, and she reflexively tightened her fist to strike at him but stopped herself in time. He was too much unknown. She could not smell alcohol or opiates on him which meant he was more than likely in his right mind and that, to her, was more dangerous than a purely inebriated, overaffectionate sailor who'd been aboard ship too long.
"Such liberties may not be taken with me," she told him coldly. "I am not one of this establishment's girls. I am Richard—"
"—Guthrie's daughter, yes, yes. What's your given name?" He was suddenly so direct that it mitigated the effect of the question's insolence. For a moment she hesitated.
"Lovely. Introductions," said the other man at the table, with affected good cheer. "Captain Charles Vane, Mistress Eleanor Guthrie. I am Jack Rackham, and this lovely creature at my side is Mistress Anne Bonny."
"Fuck you, Jack," came the murmur from the slouchy hat.
"Only attempting to be civilized; we must all remember our manners, mustn't we?" Rackham spoke cheerfully, as if moments ago his captain had not just essentially licked Eleanor's wrist like a dog—no, like something more feral than that.
Eleanor flattened her hands against her striped skirt and this time smiled in a way that did not attempt to be pleasant. "I have other patrons to attend to," she said. "Do enjoy our offerings. There is something here for all tastes, no matter how...primitive." She met Vane's gaze directly again. "I, however, am unobtainable." She stressed the syllables.
Rackham cleared his throat, causing her to glance at him, and clapped his hands. "Well! Good. Thank you. Mistress Guthrie. Don't let us keep you further from your guests." He shot a look across the table at his captain who was now appearing lazily uninterested.
Eleanor turned away, holding her offended wrist to her stomach once she was out of view. She wanted to go upstairs and regain composure in the privacy of her quarters, but was reluctant to be seen running away. Instead she served a few more customers, then lingered by the bar for a few moments. Max came over before she left and stood at her elbow, pretending to be doing something with the various bottles, stacking mugs haphazardly, her body language asking if everything was all right. Eleanor supposed it was, but she felt unsettled nonetheless. She busied herself with wiping down the wooden bar counter and avoided looking into the far corner where Vane and his two crew members still sat. After what seemed an appropriate amount of time she left the tavern area and took the stairs up two at a time to her personal rooms, swearing under her breath.
Finally alone, she poured tepid water from the jug into the basin and scrubbed her arm vigorously with a scrap of linen cloth until the skin itched in protest, then stared upwards into the beaten mirror. Wispy curls were escaping her braid, and her face seemed splotchy. She splashed water on it, too, and dried on the edge of her apron.
There was a staccato tap on the door; she had rather expected Mr. Scott, who was never far off, to be checking on her.
"Come in," she said, half-turning her head, not realizing how careless she had become until the door slid open part of the way and after a moment of silence she looked and saw Vane standing there. The tension in her stomach multiplied and she felt blood rush to the tips of her fingers. Stupid, Eleanor. There was so much noise from the tavern still, yet if Mr. Scott were anywhere nearby, surely he'd hear her scream.
Not that she meant to. She firmed her mouth and assumed her supercilious tone. "What are you doing here, Captain Vane?"
He used a hand to idly measure the thickness of the door, then looked back at her. "Was that a challenge or a warning, downstairs?"
"Neither. It was a statement of fact. Please leave."
"You asked me to come in."
"I didn't—" She bit the inside of her cheek. "I didn't know it was you."
"You were expecting someone else?"
"My manservant is nearby. If I scream he will come."
"Seems like you might be too proud for that."
She was, but he couldn't know that for certain. She analyzed the potential weapons within her immediate reach. Usually she kept a dagger strapped to her thigh, but today, of course, she had left it off when changing skirts earlier that evening after having spilled a trencher of stew. There was a solid silver candlestick by the bed table, but he was probably closer to it than she was.
She could throw a chair at him. Perhaps. The chairs were very heavy.
That would be a last resort.
"What do you want?" she repeated. Men were easily distracted creatures. It was essential to make them focus on the point.
"I don't mind a challenge," he said. "But I don't like to be warned. Not by some barely-grown girl playing at being tavern keeper."
"If you knew me at all," Eleanor answered, as civilly as possible, "you would know I am a good deal more than that."
"Maybe." He leaned back against the door in a proprietary manner. She did not like that, how comfortable he was in her doorway. Impulsively she crossed over to him, stopping just short so that if he came any further into the room he would have to lay hands on her first. This was unequivocally her territory, even if he had presumed on her in the tavern downstairs.
He straightened up a little when she was near. Though not significantly taller than she was, the man had a chest that was a broad solid wall of muscle. His skin was sun-darkened and his eyes, upon closer proximity, were so very perceptive. And blue, so very blue.
She hesitated. He was not attacking her, but she had asked him to leave, and he was not moving.
Mr. Scott appeared in the hall behind them. "Is everything all right, Mistress?"
His voice was cautiously deferential, designed not to give offense should there be a good reason for the pirate captain to be standing in the doorway of Eleanor's personal quarters at night, though she certainly couldn't think of any.
"Quite," Eleanor said, tersely. "Captain Vane was having some difficulty finding his way out."
"You'd better show me yourself," Vane said.
I'll show you the point of my dagger when I get it back in my hands, she thought, but pressed her lips together in a smile; if he wanted her to play the part of gracious hostess, she would do it for a moment or two longer. At least they would be getting out of her private quarters. Nodding to Mr. Scott, she preceded Vane out of the room and marched down the stairs, back straight as possible, taking measured steps.
He followed her out to the front street. The night air met them, musky and thick with the scent of frangipani and summer heat. A few stragglers were lurching down the road, singing an uproarious if indelicate ditty about the sweet nectar between a woman's legs, while the flames of nearby torches caught and gusted on the winds.
Eleanor stopped on the veranda enclosure, folding her arms protectively across her corseted chest, waiting for Vane to pass her.
He paused on the top step.
"My tent's on the beach," he said. "If you're looking for me."
Fuck your tent, and fuck you, she imagined replying pleasantly. But the tavern sounds behind her reminded her of the need to keep the young business alive and prosperous. "Good night, Captain."
"The drink," he said, abruptly. "Don't water it down or put anyone else's leavings in mine."
She maintained her smile, only barely.
"Good evening, Mistress Guthrie." He went down the steps into the flickering darkness.
She was aware of Mr. Scott appearing behind her. They were both quiet for a few moments, until Vane faded from view down the street.
"That's not a man you should make an enemy of," Mr. Scott murmured. "Or—knowing his reputation—but perhaps I will offend you..."
"Oh, out with it if you are thinking it." Exasperated, Eleanor glanced at him.
"I was going to say—take as a lover." His voice was tentative as if he feared her wrath, but it was a relatively harmless observation, after all.
"I have no intention of doing either, thank you, Mr. Scott." She brushed past him and walked back inside.