Title: Foggy Night Serenade Chapter One
Rating: R (though probably not for this chapter)
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from Pirates, though if I owned Johnny Depp do you re-ally think I'd be writing about him? *scoff*
Author's Note: Saw the movie, loved it, now I have to tweak it 'cause I'm a fan fic writer and that's what we do. Anyway, this actually takes place on a completely different island, (Barbados to be exact) and has more to do with Captain Jack than any of the other characters, though they may or may not make appearances later, depending on my mood.
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Barbados, 1670
The room was furnished, actually probably furnished better than it should have been. Rich drapes hung from the expensive windows, a mural of palm trees, tropical flowers, animals and many mythic creatures painted in loving detail ensconced one wall of the room. The other wall held a row of windows, drapes pulled wide to show the view. The island wasn't necessarily mountainous (though mountains there were) but this mansion sat on a hill, overlooking the sea. The bed was heavy mahogany, silks hanging from the canopy to drown out the light from the day, but the occupant had insisted they be pulled back. The room, in fact the house itself, sang of wealth. It caroled good English nobility, but plenty of finery stolen from other places.
The day was bright, if the windows were opened the birds would have been found chirping, the sounds of the workers in the cane fields with their rhythmic songs would have been lulling. But the doctor would have none of that. He snapped his valise shut with an audible snap, shaking his head and sighing. If they would not let him help her (not just her body, her mind as well), then odds were she would die, though by now he was beginning to wonder if even she cared any longer.
The doctor was a young man, fresh out of Oxford he'd sailed to this island in hopes of becoming the personal physician to Governor James Smyth, and he had, though the position had also brought him to help the local nobility as well. He shook his head again. This girl was beyond help, had been for some time. The only thing for it was to keep her comfortable. He looked around the opulent room again. Why was it that the gentry insisted on flaunting their wealth as if anyone could forget who was rich and who was not?
In England, in this day and age, if one was not entitled, then one was nothing. The doctor himself had fought long and hard to be allowed to study medicine, to find the precious pounds it would take to send himself through medical school when ironically his family held a title, but no money to go along with it. If not for the odd jobs he'd found doing things he didn't care to think about, his great-grand-father's title of "sir" would have died with him. That was another thing. The nobility (even the lesser nobles like himself) were too proud to work anything lower than what they deemed their station.
The girl on the bed sighed in her sleep and coughed a soft sound that turned into a great wracking that finally shook her body awake. She sat up, eyes uncomprehending her surroundings for a moment, but eventually she remembered where she was. She remembered that it was not in fact where she wished to be and he was the only witness to the small crumbling of the delicate muscles next to her eyelids, the short breath that escaped her lips as she realized once again that she was still a prisoner in her own house. The coverlet fell and he found himself staring at the lace of her nightdress and she blushed faintly, reaching for the delicate silk shawl, neatly folded on the bedside table. "Good afternoon, doctor," she addressed him softly, pulling the material around her shoulders and shivering violently from a cold that had nothing to do with the hot Caribbean weather.
"Good afternoon, Mistress Lockwood. I trust you had a pleasant sleep?" He answered politely and she shrugged, smiling a little condescendingly.
"You know this house, doctor, is anything in it pleasant?" He nodded his ascent, pushing a curl of hair back underneath his staunch, white horsehair wig.
"I am… sorry that things couldn't have been different for you, Mistress." He saw the fine trembling in her lower lip and cursed himself for bringing it up. "Forgive me," he rushed, "I blundered. I didn't mean to-"
"It's alright, doctor. You only voiced the thought that hasn't left my mind since I returned home." She rested her hands on her flat belly underneath the coverlet. "If things had been different…" she turned to look out of the bank of windows, letting out a sigh, "Ah, if things had been very, very different." He thought he detected a tear form in the crease of her eye, where the lid touched her soft, flawless cheek. The doctor, Sir Gregory Hamilton, instinctively stepped forward, automatically retrieving a handkerchief from the deep pocket of his frock coat.
"Mistress…," she looked over her shoulder at him and the curtain of auburn hair that the forest green eye shown through had him dispensing with formality completely. "Isabelle," he finished softly, handing her the handkerchief and reaching forward to tuck the curtain back from her face so that she was forced to look him in the eye. "You are ill, but you must allow yourself to leave this depression. It is not good for you."
"No, it isn't, is it? But then, have I ever done anything particularly good for me, Gregory?" She answered softly, putting a gentle lilt to his name that made him realize he was overstepping his bounds. He pulled back, settling for placing his hands over her demurely folded ones.
"If I could undo what I have done… but it was for your own good. Please believe that." She nodded her voice soft, yet surprisingly strong when she spoke again.
"I know what is believed to be for my own good. And while I thank you for being kind, please remember that the only thing you helped my father to do was murder someone he saw as a threat."
"The child would have killed you; you are not strong enough to survive heavy labor, my lady." Sir Hamilton's voice shook with the wounded pride evident on his face. He did what was right, he knew it! "And may I remind you that the fruits of such a union as the one you were forced to endure would hardly be considered welcome in polite society."
"The same society that condemns bastardry also allows atrocities to be committed against the weaker sex by the same people who are supposed to protect them. First my father, then you, hadn't you just sworn you wanted only to protect me, Sir Hamilton?"
"That's not fair." Sweat broke on Sir Hamilton's brow, a fine dusting of moisture that had him wiping it with his hand, as the woman on the bed held the linen handkerchief clenched between her hands. He shook his head, refusing to believe for a moment that he had taken part in the evil that she claimed her father to have committed. "Your father ordered the abortion because he feared for your safety, you were a weak child, he feared-"
"He feared the father would return and do what needed to be done!"
"…He feared you would have been socially ostracized. He didn't want your life ruined. You will heal, Lady Isabelle. You will have children again. I was very careful, considerably more careful than my predecessor would have been."
"Ah yes, my father wanted to call back Doctor Eastman, did you know that? In his anger he didn't care if I lived or died with my child, he wanted me punished. It was only by Governor Smyth's mercy that he was refused. Don't think I don't remember, or didn't you want to know how I came by this?" She gestured to her other eye, the one she had been careful to avoid showing to the room for his examination. Though it had happened a week ago, the blow to her face had been a massive one, the wound still swollen so much that she could barely open her eye all the way, tiny blood vessels inside the orb had broken, drowning the shimmering green iris in a gory red. The doctor winced.
"You were hysterical, crazed; they had to restrain you from running out into the night. That came from your father's attempts to restrain you, Isabelle. Don't create falsehoods to prove your point." He wouldn't believe what she told him about the man that had taken the young doctor into his home; he had ignored the servants' whispers that corroborated her story because he had to believe that some shred of decency still ruled this house. Otherwise the lovely young woman on the bed was in more danger here alone than he cared to think about. She laughed softly.
"I suppose you're right. It's insanity to believe that in my long months held hostage away from this island I had no solace. That I felt no peace away from my sainted father and my home, my captors were animals and I should go to my father on bended knees, thanking him for his generosity in taking me back and the great lengths to which he went to ensure that my good name wasn't ruined. What are they saying now? That the kidnappers did nothing to my person, that I am not recovering from a procedure usually reserved for whores and fishwives with to many brats, but that I am suffering from exhaustion from my rather… unconventional vacation? Who started those rumors, Gregory? You? Or my father, afraid his daughter's dowry would have to be raised to insufferably large prices to ensure that the intolerable child be taken off his hands?" She crossed her arms under her breasts, leaning back against the large pillows thrown against the headboard, suddenly lightheaded from her impassioned speech. She was, after all, still recovering.
"I am sorry, M'lady. But there is no talking to you when you are having one of your… episodes." Gregory Hamilton answered finally, his voice stiff with the effort not to beg her to lie to him. He wanted so very much to believe that her father was not the man he knew him to be, because as soon as she was recovered enough to walk on her own, Doctor Hamilton knew his services would no longer be needed at the house, he would be forced to leave for propriety's sake and the girl would be left to the whims of a mad man. A man who not only allowed a very dangerous procedure that killed more than it helped done to his daughter, but actually threatened to do on his own with a bent table knife if the good doctor didn't do it himself.
Isabelle Lockwood stared silently at the doctor with his blue velvet frock coat, his white wig and high, starched cravat. His eyes said he knew she was telling the truth, but she could tell that he couldn't believe the horrors she had to live. She realized suddenly that while he was older than her, though the years be not many, that he was also suddenly very, very young. His sweaty hand gripped the handle of his valise and he turned stiffly for the door. "Doctor Hamilton?" she called softly and he stopped, the heavy white door with its silver gilded trim opened to reveal the cool darkness of the hallway. His head cocked gently to the side and she knew he was listening. "I am… sorry too." He nodded curtly, the left, closing the door gently with a soft snick of the metal knob. She heard the sound of a key scratching in the lock moments later. As usual when she was not alone, she was locked in. Whether or not Hamilton wanted to believe it, she was more prisoner here than she ever was on the Pearl.
Isabelle felt a white hot tear course down her cheek and she dashed at it absent mindedly, staring again at the teal colored waters of the bay as they lapped the white sand outside. "Oh Jack," she sighed softly, wrapping the edges of the shawl more securely around her shoulders, "where are you?"
And why haven't you come for me? Her traitorous heart screamed in her chest.