Author's Note: Sadly, I don't own anything related to Pirates of the Caribbean or any characters therein. Nor do I have any affiliation with the Walt Disney Company, Jerry Bruckheimer, Gore Verbinski, Terry Rossio, Ted Elliot, Stuart Beattie, or Jay Wolpert. However, if any of the aforementioned would like hire me, drop a line or send a limo.
I do, however, claim full responsibility for the crew of the Atropos and for Angel Sparrow.
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"Well, love, as you well know, my story does have a happy ending. Thanks in large part to you," my husband stroked my fingers softly as he spoke. His grin was inviting, challenging, and full of good humour all at the same time. There was ever more grey streaking his black locks, yet he remained as devilishly handsome as the day I first laid eyes on him. I smiled and looked down at the dark wooden table.
"Don't hide those hazel eyes from me, pet," he chucked his forefinger under my chin and lifted my face to his. I laughed, luxuriating in his intense gaze.
"Alright, Jack, continue your tale. And, quit with the compliments or we'll end up entangled in that bed over there before I hear all the juicy parts," I urged, moving my chair closer to his.
We sat in the grand cabin. We'd managed to finish a bottle of good Jamaican rum between us, a gift from a man Jack claimed to have "saved from some sort of peril." That's how we happened upon our current conversation. We'd been married for eight years. The years had passed swiftly, filled with plundering, adventure, old friends, new enemies, battles, and our love. And it was sudden that I realized how little I knew about my dear husband.
I know that he is Captain Jack Sparrow. He is the cleverest man I've ever met, the most tender lover I could ever imagine, and the most fearsome pirate in the Caribbean. Well, fearsome might be going a bit far, but he is clever and very good with both a cutlass and his rapier wit, depending upon the situation. But, beyond that, I know only what I've experienced at his side.
I am Angel. I was the daughter of the French monarch, Henri IV of France and his mistress. But, once I met Jack, I couldn't pass up the hand he offered and the adventure that came with it. My story is one for another time. I only thirst for Jack's at the present moment.
The oil in the lamp on the table was low, so Jack lit a candle. In the softer light, his dark good looks jumped out at me even more. The years melted away and he looked like a young man. I smiled and waited for him to continue.
His story went like this...
"Jaques! Jaques, darling? Where are you? I must have this dress, now!" my mother screamed. I was behind a scrim on the stage, mending it with a fine needle and thread. I scurried out from behind the thin screen to see to her. Julie Sperrit was waiting in the wings, a burgundy gown all but falling from her white shoulders. She was a great beauty, but she looked a fright, even to me. Her dark chestnut locks were pinned up and wrapped so that they would not escape her wig. Her porcelain skin was red and blotchy from her nerves. She was performing her largest role ever tonight. I hurried to her and buttoned the gown quickly. She turned smartly on her heel and ran back towards the other girls who did not have a fine dressing room to find a suitable wig. I watched after her, sad that she didn't bend to kiss my forehead like she usually did.
I felt a large hand on my shoulder. I knew it was Jean Roget, the theater's manager, "Tonight should be a fine take, Jaques my boy. A fine take indeed." I nodded, fighting the urge to cringe.
At the age of six, I had been granted several jobs at the Paris Opera. I was a costumer (I helped all the ladies into and out of their dresses between scenes because my hands were small and deft on the buttons), a stage hand (I was given lots of chores, such as lighting the footlamps and mending lamps high above the stage... I had learned the best ways to hang by one arm from the stage rigging and not burn myself in the process), and I was the establishment's very best pickpocket.
Roget had explained to me that even in a very fine place such as the Paris Opera house, the actors never made the money that they should. It was my task to pilfer as much coin as I could for their sakes. For every Louis d'or I brought back, I was to receive one louis d'argent. One gold for one silver. I wasn't aware that I was being swindled by Roget and my mother never knew that I swindled the guests. I guess I was happier ignorant of that small truth, as she undoubtedly was. Of course, none of the actors ever benefited from my quick hand, but I didn't know that, either. I was now fourteen and still able to pick pockets with quiet alacrity.
That evening, I was dressed in my best. As Roget had said, tonight was to be a big take. Cadmus & Hermione was opening and my mother was to play Pallas Athena. She was beside herself to perform the role of a goddess in Jean-Baptiste Lully's newest opera. I was nervous for her. From the first notes of the overture, I stood breathless in the wings. Of course, I had to assist the actors and actresses as they came off stage, but nothing could distract me from my mother's contralto voice. It was as though heaven poured right down through the rafters. Her performance was flawless. However, at the intermission curtain, I had to go to work.
I slipped through the crowds on the grand staircase and in the foyer with ease. I was tall, but thin. Most probably took me for someone's son or a cousin. No one ever asked me what I was doing at the Opera or questioned my right to be there. When someone did notice me, they usually smiled at me and continued with their conversations. I knew I was a striking young man. I had my mother's dark hair and her well-defined cheek bones. My skin was so dark that many mistook me for an Italian child, but I always smiled and said nothing. As far as I was concerned, I was just a rare young Frenchman. My mother often told me that I'd be so beautiful that I could win the heart of anyone in an audience once I took the stage. Indeed, many of the seasoned actors took me under their wings, teaching me parts of duets and steps to the elaborate dances. I was equally accomplished at mimicking the swordplay on stage. I often helped the actors learn their steps for big duels.
That night as I made my way across the marble foyer, I noticed a dark haired gentleman near a large mirror and made for him through the crowd. He stood nearly a head taller than the men surrounding him. He was speaking English. My mother spoke English to me sometimes, so I knew the language. I didn't prefer it. The soft curvature of French was much more beautiful to me, and of course, it was the language in which my mother sang. Still, I couldn't help but be drawn by the conversation.
"It is her, Annesley. I know her face anywhere and her voice is equally unforgettable," the tall man said.
His companion was considerably smaller. He had sandy hair and pink skin. His nose twitched nervously while Tall Man spoke. I think he was afraid of being struck. "I believe you, Charles. But, you just can't rush up to her on stage and begin a conversation. We've arranged to meet her through Roget, and so it will be." The smaller man's voice was so bathed in some foreign brogue, I nearly did not understand him.
The man called Charles nodded. Suddenly, a cough wracked his body. He put a handkerchief to his mouth and I spotted blood on it. I think I gasped because before I turned to fade into the crowd, I saw the men look at me.
After the performance that night, I turned in thirty-two Louis d'Ors, twelve half louis d'argents, ten quarter d'argents, five eighth d'argents and fifty two copper coins, a mix of sols and deniers. Roget was distracted and allowed me to keep all of the silver and copper. I almost asked why, but I kept mum and hurried off with my purse. I didn't get too far before my mother embraced me. She spun me around and hugged me close.
"I did it, Jaques! I impressed Monsieur Lully! He promised me the lead role in his next opera," she hugged me close and spun me again. She let me go and held me at arm's length, her eyes twinkling with tears. "Oh, Jaques, sometimes it surprises me how much you've grown! I can hardly believe it."
I laughed at her and swiped at her tears, "I am so proud of you, maman! You were wonderful tonight!"
She hugged me again. We were soon interrupted by Roget. "Mademoiselle Sperrit? Please come with me." She stood, still beaming and followed Roget. He beckoned for me to join them.
Roget led us to his private office. I'd been here once before as a young boy. Roget had taken me by the hand and led my through the large oaken door. He'd promised me a truffle. I'd barely escaped untouched. A feeling of revulsion descended upon me once again in the plush room. I stood by my mother as Roget led her to a deep-seated cane chair. She looked regal sitting there, still in her white powdered wig and burgundy gown. I flushed with pride again. Roget excused himself nervously and then the Englishmen from the foyer entered. I sucked in a breath. They'd been speaking of my mother!
My mother took in an equal breath and stammered in English, "Charles? Is it you?"
The tall man nodded. "I'm glad that you remember me after all these years, Julie." He coughed again, but did not bring the handkerchief to his mouth. "Am I to assume this young man is your son?"
My mother spoke words that I never thought I'd hear come from her mouth, "He is your son, Charles. His name is Jaques."
I'd learned enough from watching French gentlemen at the Opera not to let my surprise show, but inside I was screaming.
My mother nudged me forwards, "Jaques, this is your father, Charles Paulet."
He strode forward to meet me and shook my hand. His grip was surprisingly firm. I had though he'd be weaker. "Charles Paulet, First Duke of Bolton, young man."
"An honor, sir," I replied in English, though my English was heavily accented.
Monsieur Paulet's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Obviously, he had not expected me to answer in his language. I suddenly felt as though I had the upper hand. Of course, his next words threw me down once more.
"I should think he is quite ready to accompany me to England then, yes Julie?"
She never even flinched, "Of course, Charles. I expected you sooner, though, I must say."
I was well beyond the age of tears, but just then I felt like crying. Could these people be serious? I'd spent my whole life in the Opera house, content that I did not have a father. I'd never even questioned it, as I'd had some much attention from the actors, actresses, and others in the theater. I had just wordlessly accepted my life as it was. I was happy in the Opera.
Charles continued, as though I wasn't even present, "Well then. Have him ready for six a.m. I shall send a coach round to fetch him. We depart tomorrow." He turned sharply on his heel and the man called Annesly followed him, looking a little like a loyal pup. If not for the previous conversation, I might have laughed.
I looked at my mother who continued to stare after them. She said nothing. Finally, I saw a solitary tear roll down her cheek, leaving a black streak through her rouged cheek.
"Maman! Please, talk to me! What has transpired here? I will not leave with that man! Please, maman! Say something!" I was beginning to feel hysterical. I stood and paced in front of the cold fireplace near the door. She still did not speak. I moved close to her and shook her. She slapped me hard across the cheek.
I reeled backwards. In my fourteen years, she'd never struck me. I laid my palm to my warm cheek and looked at her, agog.
"Jaques," she began dully, "I taught you better than to treat a lady that way. And you will depart with Monsieur Paulet in the morning." She stood and strode from the room. I hurried after her, holding back tears and holding in my screams.
We walked the three blocks through the muddy streets to our apartment on the rue Saint-Honoré. Once inside, I set about lighting a fire and my mother began putting my worldly possessions into her small valise. It wasn't full when she finished. I was wearing my only formal attire and most of my other clothes where cast off costumes designed for girls who played young men. It never bothered me before, but suddenly, I found myself being cast out onto the doorstep of some duke. He would laugh at me. I said as much to my mother,
"Charles will see you properly outfitted," her voice was still dull. The light that had shone from her after he performance had dimmed considerably.
I put my arms around her. I knew it would pointless to argue with her, so I did not. "I don't know how I can leave you, maman. When will I see you again? Why must I go to England?" I felt the tears building again and fought hard to swallow them. I would not add to my mother's burdens.
She cradled me against her breast the way she had when I was much younger. I hadn't noticed until now that she'd never changed out of her costume gown. What once had made her look so regal now dwarfed her and made her look sad. "Jaques, my darling Jaques. He is your father. I ran from him, you know. I did not know I was carrying you when I fled England. I only knew I could not shame him."
"But how could you shame him, maman? You are a great and beautiful lady!"
She laughed. "You have not yet seen the world, mon petit Jaques. There are more women far lovelier than your maman," she began, "But, aside from that, I am not highborn. I could never have married your father. But I always knew he'd come for you."
I sat up and looked at her, studied each faint line around her mouth, the dimple in her right cheek, the black fringe around her eyes, smudgy and spiky from too many tears. I removed the wig and net binding her hair and let the shiny sable locks tumble over her pale shoulders. I found a clean rag and removed her make up. Only then did I allow myself tears. Only when she was divested of the costuming that made her a goddess. We embraced and cried together. We clung to one another until sunlight spilled over the windowsill. I cursed the sun. I had wanted the day of our parting to be filled with the same thunderstorms that raged in my heart. As Charles' coach drove away from our little garret, I remembered that my mother had never told me when I'd see her again.
The trip had thus far been slow. Monsieur Paulet had been uncommunicative to say the least. Annesly had done his best to start a conversation, but I hadn't felt like talking much either. Like father, like son I thought bitterly.
When we arrived in Calais, I breathed the salt sea air for the first time. I was not excited for the destination, but I was eager to be aboard the ship. Annesly told me that the crossing would take no more than a few hours and we'd been traveling most of the day as it was, but my spirits soared. I'd never been on a ship until today. It even partially overshadowed the longing I felt for my mother.
Paulet had his own ship docked and waiting in Calais. It was a sloop called the Tempest. I wasn't aware of the irony, I was only dazzled by her simple beauty. As soon as we were aboard the small ship, I felt at home. I felt that this was my stage, my arena, my destiny. I explored the length and breadth of her. Paulet paid me no mind, rather he chose to retire for the short journey. He made no complaint to me, but I could see he was unwell. Annesly likewise looked a little green, but did not go below decks.
The sparse crew paid me no mind and I hung over the bulwarks and clung to the rigging. I was too slight to make any changes to the sails and soon I was shinnying up the bowsprit and hanging out over the water as though I'd been born aboard a ship.
Annesly, rather than try to stop me, waited patiently for me to come nearer to him. When I finally did settle, looking over the water at the rapidly approaching cliffs that signaled the end of our journey, he wobbled over to me and mimicked my easy stance, arms folded on the bulwark. "You'll like Bolton, I think. It's not far from the Irish Sea. The Duke has several boats."
"He doesn't seem to like them much," I said. I hadn't meant for my words to come so sharply, but the events of the past day had worn my manners down.
"Aye, lad, but he used to. He was a great sailor. Perhaps he could teach you a thing or two."
I made a noise indicating my disbelief in that. I was far from ready to believe anything good of Monsieur Paulet. So, I changed the subject, "Why is that you talk so differently from my mother and the Duke?"
Annesly laughed. His laugh was hearty and wholly unexpected from the small man. The pink in his cheeks showed more beneath the green pallor. I almost smiled in spite of my stormy mood, "Oh, son, I'm a Scottsman born and bred, you see. I come from the best stock in the north." The last word sounded suspiciously like there was a misbegotten "a" in it. I laughed.
"A Frenchman, an Englishman, and a Scot? Well, sir, if you'll excuse me, it sounds like I have wandered into a joke that one might hear in one of the saloons," I answered. I received another laugh and Annesly clapped me on the back.
"Well, it appears the two of you are getting along well," came the clipped English from behind us. We turned. Paulet's color had not improved, but he looked more stern than ever. I snickered at him and Annesly nudged me in the side. "We are almost to port, gentlemen," the Duke finished. I held back one more snicker and we disembarked.
Dover was a bustling port town, but before I had the chance to look my fill, Paulet had herded us into a well-sprung stage coach. We were the only passengers once more. I assumed the Duke owned this, as well. I could hardly wait to see Bolton. I was surprised they hadn't renamed the town Paulet since this was obviously a wealthy man. The long ride was punctuated with a few stops to refresh the horse and gave me time to see my new home. The England I saw was cold and sparse. Compared to my beautiful Paris, the rolling hills and valleys did little to pique my excitement.
Bolton did even less. The town seemed dismal and in disrepair. The Duke's property was slightly more inspired. It was a sprawling home that looked as if it had sat on the same spot for two hundred years and grown outward, much like Paris. The main house had a black and white half-timbered facade and the wings were of brown bricks. There were several clusters of chimney's, all with ridiculous-looking chimney pots. The house also many gables, all featuring several narrow windows apiece. Some of the gables even overlapped. From the outside, it seemed as though the inside was going to be difficult to navigate. I was hoping it would be a place I could easily lose myself.
We pulled round to the entrance and there was a line of servants awaiting us. Servants! Annesly got out first and announced the Duke, as though they didn't know he was coming. Once he disembarked, he marched past them and into the house. A man (I soon learned he was Paulet's valet) scurried along behind him. I slid out of the carriage next and I immediately blushed. The two maids immediately bent their gazes to one another and I think the butler rolled his eyes. Annesly patted my arm and said, "This is the Duke's new charge. You'll see to him as you would the master himself. Dismissed."
On the way in the house, I turned to Annesly, "Why do you get to tell them what to do?"
Th Scot laughed again, the sound booming along the polished wooden floors and against the stained-glass windows, "Because I am Charles' brother, young Jaques." He nodded cheerily at me and headed off in another direction.
"Wait!" I called after him. He turned.
"What shall I do?" I asked. I hated the pathetic pleading in my voice.
"Oh, I nearly forgot!" he turned around and bellowed, "Cary!"
A tall, rail thin boy appeared as if out of thin air. "Father?" he asked, an impish smile spreading across his freckled face.
"Oh, there you are. See to the young sir, if you please."
Cary gave a sharp nod and beckoned me to follow him. He had almost disappeared again before I could follow. I lifted my thin valise and chased after him. The hallways were wide, but dimly lit. Even though the sun shone brightly outside, it hardly made it through the tightly shuttered windows. I caught up to the boy as he mounted a grand staircase. The wood was dark and worn, but polished to a high gloss. I knew from the wear on the treads that this was probably the oldest part of the house. Cary scrambled soundlessly up the stairs, but everywhere I stepped, the wood groaned beneath my feet. Cary laughed and wordlessly urged me to follow faster.
Upstairs was even darker, but here the hall was laid with a deep carpet. I sunk soundlessly into it as Cary headed left from the staircase. I looked over my shoulder as I followed him. The hall seemed to stretch a great distance, but I saw a narrow window at the end, so I was sure I hadn't entered some nightmare. It was as dark in this house as the darkest basement corners in the Opera House. I shivered.
Finally, Cary stopped in front of a large set of double doors on the right side of the hall. The ceiling seemed to stretch upwards to accommodate the towering doors. I let my breath escape me as I followed their carvings up. There appeared to be a scene depicting the bowels of hell toward the bottom and then heaven eluded me, for it was carved into the top. Cary laughed at me again and clapped me on my shoulder, similar to the way his father had on the sloop. "Oh, you are much to easy to scare! It's just a door," his voice carried the same hint of brogue that coated Annesly's speech, but it was more refined and clipped.
I looked at him without smiling. And he laughed again before speaking, "This is the Duke's private suite. This is the only place in the whole house where I am not allowed. You should be equally wary of it."
I just nodded and Cary headed further down the hall. Soon, we were at the end. We had at last found another window. I looked out and saw an exquisite garden to the right and a lush lawn to the front and left. The late-day sun fairly sparkled on the grass. I longed to run through it and into the trees at the edge of my vision. I sighed and returned my thoughts to the hall. There was a set of narrow stairs on the right and a normal sized door on the left of the hall. Cary opened the door and it swung inward to reveal a grand-looking sitting room and a bedroom beyond.
"This is your suite," Cary said, pushing me gently inside. I was dazzled by the luxury around me. There was a huge fireplace, cold, but ready to be filled with a roaring fire. There was even a packet of small logs on the hearth and the necessary tools next to it. Above the mantle was a portrait of young man. His hair was long, fastened in a ponytail at his nape. He wore a fine red hunting coat and stood with one boot on a freshly slain brown bear. The gore pooling at the animal's mouth almost glistened in the low lamplight. I grimaced. The man held a polished steel hunting rifle over his left shoulder. His gaze seemed to peer out from the portrait right at me. It was like looking into a mirror.
"The Duke," Cary said soberly. I nodded. "Harry will be 'round to collect you for the late supper. If you'd like to freshen up, I can have Letty bring you a tub of water."
I waved him away. He stood another moment. "What can I call you? Do you even talk?"
A laugh sounded from my throat unbidden. "You mean you know nothing about me? Were you even expecting me?"
He shook his head to the negative, "No. The staff was expecting a young lady." Cary turned to leave.
"Jaques Sperrit," I called after him. He turned and grinned at me and was out the door before I could speak again.
I took my valise into the adjoining bedroom. A great bed, larger even than my mother's had been, stood in the center of the room. Another fireplace was ready at the far corner. I was glad to see another set of windows flanking the fireplace. From living in the garret so close to the roof of the building, I was used to having a breeze and seeing the watery Parisian sun filtering all through my room. I flung open the heavy maroon velvet drapes and looked out onto the glorious grounds. I was obviously in the front of the home and oriented towards the east because the horizon was already dark and I could see the road on which we'd traveled. From the other large window, I could see the small village at a distance and in a valley. On the edge of the tree-line sat a stable. There was a young man exercising a horse inside of a small fenced area. I'd never been astride a horse without my mother, and it had been years even since I'd done that.
I left the drapery open and sat back on the high bed. The hangings were red velvet to match the drapery and the comforter was a heavy silver wool. I laid back and contemplated my new home. But, before I knew it, a gentleman was calling my name. Well, not my name, but something else, "Young master? Master Paulet?"