A man who had felt less, might. - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
He finds himself utterly bewildered by her cruelty, cannot fathom it, cannot understand it. What has he done? Is he so repulsive? He knows he is not. She might deny it, she might never admit it, hell, she might not even understand it herself (he is clutching at straws, really) but her body responds to him at night. In that sense, she is everything he could wish for - she is soft and willing and passionate, even if she then draws herself as far away from him as possible, only to wake entwined peacefully in his arms. He only wishes she might one day whisper the words I love you back to him as he makes love to her with everything he is and has (he lives in hope / she never does).
He knows, because he's always risen before the sun (before her) and the sudden way she stiffens and pulls herself out of his grasp (he lets her go, every time) every morning is like a slap that pushes the mantle of despair (of reality, of his waking hours) back onto his shoulders, shoulders already burdened with the defence of Port Royal and of his men (good men, all of them, and he sees their canvas-wrapped corpses being lowered solemnly into the treacherous sea waters every night before he goes to sleep). He has his duty, to King and Country. To chase pirates, but more than that, to keep those who cannot defend themselves safe.
So this is not only cruel, it is also a surprise that he could not (ever, ever, not even in his worst nightmares) have anticipated.
"Can you - can you at least, at the very least, tell me the child is mine?" He hates the way his voice shakes - why must he always make himself so vulnerable in front of her, when he already knows she's only going to kick him in the teeth again? (A knife in the back would be kinder, he thinks. It has the not inconsiderable advantage of being a quick, clean death.)
He loves her.
It is in his every gesture, every thought, every word.
And still she does not see it (or cares not to see it, and he can't decide which is worse.)
He loves her, as he already loves the child she carries in her rounded belly. He has poured all his love into her, and the two of them have created a child, and boy or girl, he loves it.
So to find Will Turner's linen shirt stuffed behind the headboard, to think of Elizabeth with another (with him) in their bed, the bed he had made for their wedding, with sweet smelling exotic hardwood, delicately carved with flowers, after a Japanese silk coat his parents had given him upon hearing of their engagement, to know that one of his gifts to her (one of many) has been tainted - his most heartfelt gift (apart from the little skiff - he understands what it is to love the sea), his haven, where he has sought love and solace and pleasure to distract him from the burdens of his responsibilities, the thousands of men under his command and the thousands that look to him and him alone to protect them, (and though he has given of all three, he has only ever really received the latter in any great measure) sends him to his knees and the sobs hacking painfully through his body.
He thanks God for small mercies - she is visiting her father, (or is she trysting with her lover?) so she does not see him shatter.
Touching the garment as little as possible, he places it next to her place setting at the dining table that evening. (He does not know how else to confront her.) Looking at the white thing (horrid instrument of deceit and despair) makes him sick, makes the room swirl and he fears the mere sight of it will send him into another fit of sobs. He is tired of this pain, and even though the result is likely to shatter his heart once again (how many times has she broken it now? he has lost count), more than anything else he wants the truth.
He bows when she enters, as lovely as ever (why is she as lovely?) and the thought makes his heart ache even more. She frowns in confusion as she realises he is not wearing his wig - he has not replaced it since he almost made himself bald earlier in the afternoon - and why should he have done? Here, in the privacy of his own house (the house he bought for her, with its orchid gardens and splendid music rooms) he is free to do as he likes, and he is in no mood to be the Commodore tonight (he is a man, too, not an automaton).
He takes her hand in his, presses a soft kiss to the back of her hand and hears her sharp intake of breath (he knows, he knows she is far from indifferent to him, and that is why this hurt is greater still), as he always does, and leads her to her place.
She stumbles and blanches when her brown eyes fall on the shirt that she somehow and immediately recognises as Will Turner's. He catches her (he will always catch her) and guides her into the chair.
"I'd like the truth, Elizabeth." He says simply when they are both seated, at opposite ends of the oval mahogany table, elegant candelabra lit between them. He uses his formality, his courtesy to keep his tone as even as possible (against her, it is the only armour he has left).
His wife remains silent, whilst he sips his wine and watches her. When she does nothing more than stare blankly at the clothing, hands clasped in he lap, he drains his glass in a single, impatient movement.
"Imagine my surprise," he drawls, taking refuge in the haughty tones he knows annoy her, "when, upon trying to retrieve my watch, which had fallen on the floor under the bed - " he stops himself from using the word our with difficulty - "and found a shirt. A man's shirt, which quite clearly did not belong to me."
She looks up, then, and seeing the furious humiliation and agony burning in his eyes (he radiates it, and for once, she is the one scorched by him instead of the other way around) she attempts to deflect. "James, I -"
"Why are you sparing me now, Elizabeth?" He surprises even himself with the amount of bitterness (the poison of pain and anger and a crushed, unwanted heart) that he allows to leech into his tone. "You've never spared me before." He looks her dead in the eye. Some morbid part of him wants to see her reaction (the unadulterated reaction, before she hides herself behind the pretty words and smiles she wields as weapons - oh, how she's played him! Played him for the greatest fool that ever was) as he gives full rein to the tumult he feels at her betrayal, for he knows, even as he still hopes otherwise (the eternal optimist) that what he knows so far is just the beginning (there is still so much more pain to come).
"I know you do not love me, and it would seem that I must not hope for affection either, at least not beyond the marriage bed - " he's viciously pleased at the sudden flush that paints her face and neck (the same pretty pink she becomes when his bare legs tangle with hers, when his hands tighten in her hair) " - but is civility too much to ask for?"
They stare at each other, one fierce and proud, his veins searing with humiliation (but he cannot be ashamed of his love for her - she cannot rob him of that, no matter her scorn, her indifference or her cruelty - of that he will never be ashamed; he has loved, he loves and will continue to love and she cannot stop him) and the other with indignation smouldering in her eyes, until it is replaced by just the barest hint of embarrassment. James sees her capitulation, but this is no time for mercy (after all, when has she ever granted him mercy?)
"I asked you a question, and I will have an answer, Elizabeth. I will have the truth."
A sigh slips from her lips before she replies quietly. She can no longer look him in the eye. "It's Will's." Then, even more quietly, "How did you know?"
A bitter laugh escapes him at the realisation that she does not even try to contest his suspicions. "Aside from the fact that it is my bedchamber and that I most assuredly do not stuff my own shirts behind the headboard when I have a perfectly good cupboard in which to hang them? The stitching, Elizabeth. I may be a man, but I have been a naval commander for a very long time. I know how to repair sails and shirts. That stitching is far cruder than my own."
Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens and closes like a fish. "I - I"
But he has turned his back on her, and he begins to pace the room as he speaks, his words thickly cut with misery. "You know, it all makes sense now - all those excuses for your dresses and hair in disarray - I went for a walk and it was windy! I'm just going to spend the afternoon with my father again!" His voice mimics hers with surprising accuracy - "It'll be easy to fool James - he would never suspect me of such a thing!" He whirls around and slams his palms on the table. The crystal glasses jump and rattle.
"No - James, James, I never meant - "
"To hurt me? To deceive me? To so thoughtlessly crush a heart that beats and bleeds only for you beneath your pretty, unfeeling little slipper?" He laughs again, a bitter, humourless thing and damn him but he's not going to fall to his knees again in front of her (he fell to his knees in awe and worship and exultation when she told him she was with child so he could lay his cheek reverently across her stomach). "When I said my vows in church that day, I meant them. I suppose I was a fool to believe you did too -"
"James, please -"
"I asked you once if your answer was sincere." He shakes his head, finally allowing the tears that have rasped his voice to fall from his eyes (his sea-green eyes, doesn't she know that she could have her freedom there if only she chose, if only she looked). "Forgive me for believing that people mean what they say, that honesty and kindness are values worth upholding. Good God, Elizabeth, you are kind to everyone, it seems, everyone but me! You have the highest opinion of a man who not a minute after saving your life proceeded to hold a pistol to your head and threaten said life so he could save his own skin! You smile and comfort the urchins in the streets - but for me, for me, you reserve your choicest insults, you heap your scorn and you lie and manipulate - Elizabeth, I only want your happiness."
He slumps, exhausted, sitting down again, suddenly wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed and sink into sweet oblivion - let him escape, let him forget this agony. "What more do you want from me, Elizabeth?" He whispers eventually, when the ringing in his ears has subsided slightly, when the silence becomes too oppressive. "I have given you everything I have and am - my wealth, my sword, my body, my heart, my soul, and you disdain them all. What must I do to make you happy?"
"You can't make me happy, James." (Nothing he offers her will ever be enough.)
"Why not?" He shoots back.
"You're not Will."
He is unprepared for the blow that it is; he feels sick, the world is spinning as if he were being buffeted by a hurricane - she has torn him to pieces (a rabid wolf would have shown more consideration, jaws sinking into his jugular). His hand trembles as he pours more wine into his crystal glass, and shakes as he brings it to lips that are pressed tightly closed with the effort of swallowing his tears (they taste like smoke and gunpowder and burning wood and moonlight in a cursed cave on a haunted island).
He retreats behind his formality, scrambling to reassamble his armour after having been so intensely and summarily exposed and devoured. "I see," he says in a clipped voice, looking at the embroidery on his napkin (a J and E entwined - merciful heaven, will everything remind him of her?) "Why, then, may I ask, did you marry me?"
"I - I didn't plan to."
"What?" He asks hollowly. "If I remember rightly, you accepted my proposal."
"To save Will!" She exclaims. "And he was supposed to interrupt the wedding - or that was the plan, but then he never did."
He remembers how tense she was then, when the bishop asked the congregation if there was any reason why they should not be married (in white lace and diamonds and with the scent of orchids wafting through the air), and now he finally knows why.
"I would let you go if I could, Elizabeth, but an annulment is impossible; our marriage is consummated and you are with child."
"I don't understand."
"You may utterly disregard me, but I love you. I only want your happiness, and if that meant giving you free, then I would." (And his own heart be damned.)
"James!" She gasps, and the note of hope it holds makes him sick to the core. (Is she so eager to be rid of him, then? Is her vendetta against him so great? He has been a long-time family friend, and he only wants her safe and happy. He doesn't understand. He doesn't think he ever will).
"But we took our vows, you are pregnant with my child - " a horrid thought suddenly occurs to him - "Can you - can you at least, at the very least, tell me the child is mine?"
She looks terrified. "I don't know."