Author's Note: Welcome to chapter three of "My Friendliest". I'd like to thank those who read and reviewed the last chapter, Rachel Sparrow, Mayhem O'Malley and Loony Lemur. Thanks so much for your feedback! Again, I do not have a beta for this chapter so any spelling or grammatical errors that appear in this fic are my fault and my fault alone. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters.

December 31, 1729

My friendliest,

I sit composing this letter in one of the grander guest chambers in sister Harriet's house. She insisted I join her in Devonshire for Christmastide and the New Year. I almost declined, so ill did I feel, but at the last moment I accepted her invitation. It is better, I think, to celebrate Christmas with my family, though she is the only one of them that will have me.

You should see me now, Cutler. I do look a bit different. My seamstress had to hurry to adjust my gowns, for the changes that motherhood brings are swiftly falling upon me.

I have been so ill, so terribly ill that I feared for my life and the life of the babe. But the midwife assures me that it is all part of the natural course of child bearing and the new maid has taken to brewing a wonderful tea that eases my discomfort.

Ah yes, we have a new maid. I must admit she is quite pleasant, a Yorkshire girl, one Agnes Dean. When she heard from the kitchen maids that her mistress was ill she immediately requested that a certain tea be brought up to me. As it is, I would not mind if she started singing, as long as her brew continues to settle me.

I was surprised, in fact, that Harriet invited me for the whole holiday. I thought she would spend some of it with mother and uncle. You know they will not have us since that Christmas four years past. I shudder at the memory of it.

I was even more surprised though, when last night as I lay in bed I heard a carriage pull up to the front door. The hour was late and I could not imagine who would come to call. Curiosity infected me and despite the chill, I crept out of bed and peered out the window into the yard. A woman stepped out of the coach, dressed in a somber gown of black with a modest hat perched atop her gray hair. It was mother!

Imagine my utter shock. I felt cold all over and my flesh prickled until I wrapped my dressing gown tight about me. I thought perhaps she had heard you were in Port Royal and decided to pay a visit. But I daren't go downstairs, lest she lay her haughty eyes on me and sniff with disdain. No, like a nosy child I leaned against my chamber door and listened for their echoing voices. It quite reminded me of the night I hid by the stairs when you asked uncle for my hand.

For a long while I could not hear what they whispered, but then Harriet's voice rose up high and loud.

"She is with child, mother. Won't you see her for a moment?"

"I haven't the time," mother argued. It was the first time I had heard her voice in years. She sounded much the same, dry and dreary as always.

"But kind mother!" George, Harriet's dear husband protested. "Why should you not wish to see your first grandchild? Think of the little babe and think of your daughter…"

"No grandchild of mine," mother interrupted. "Not of his blood."

Nothing more was said. I slipped back into bed and pulled the covers about me. I did not weep, Cutler. But I did not find rest either.

It saddens me, though not half as much as it should. To think Auntie was the only one who cared for you. She introduced us after all. I remember when she came home from London and told mother she found a suitable gentleman for her daughter, a lord no less!

Well, mother thought she spoke of Harriet, not me. No, I was too young, she said. A foolish girl of fifteen should have little to do with a man thirty and three.

I do not know why, for such matches are acceptable. Uncle disliked you as well. I remember when you arrived for tea and he said you looked like a dandy weakling and his youngest niece should wed a tall, strong man. But that did not stop me from following you out into the gardens like I did.

But enough of the sordid past. I must tell you of the many delights I encountered this week. After my arrival, Harriet announced she would hold a grand array of festivities to mark the holiday. Not the least of which was a hunt on the morning of Christmas Eve. So sorely did I wish to go, but Harriet insisted that I follow behind in the carriage. As you know hunting is a strenuous activity and she feared the child or I would come to harm.

I could not stand the thought of bouncing along in the carriage for hours. Could you, dearest? So I stayed behind and watched from the window. It was such a lovely morning. Thick clouds darkened the skies and around half past nine it began to snow. The ladies and gentlemen paraded their horses through the courtyard below my window. Some were well mounted on gallant beasts. I am sure you would have appreciated the sight. Mr. Birdhood in particular sat astride a charming black creature, with a thin, tapered neck and good strong legs. But poor Miss Charlotte. She rode a mangy nag, a chestnut with a heavy body and neck almost resembling a draft horse.

After the departure of the hunting party I saw little more but the yowling of the hounds carried on the wind and into my room. Harriet later told me the chase was dull and they caught only a tiny hare. I think she must have lied for the guests could scarce talk of anything else.

Do you still hunt in the Caribbean? I have heard from many that there isn't a fox to be found or any other matter of worthy game. Oh how you must miss it, ten times as much as I. I can remember those frosted winter mornings when you would sneak out of bed to go for a quick gallop and return bringing the cold with you. And how I protested when you slipped between the sheets once more with a chill on you, though we never stayed cold in bed for long.

Harriet hosted a dance and dinner that afternoon. During the meal dear George did heartily wish for your health during his toast. Carols were sung about the pianoforte though I am afraid your elegant voice was missed.

I meant to retire afterwards but as I ascended the staircase I heard a few troubling words pass between two matrons. They stood beneath the stairs, close enough for me to lean over the balustrade and listen to every horrid rumor that fell from their lips.

"A child in Lord Beckett's absence," one mused. She patted her breast in disbelief.

"It has the makings of mischief, mark my words," the second whispered. Her face contorted like a nanny goat's and she pursed her lips. "Poor Lord Beckett does not know what awaits him upon his return."

"When the cat is away, the mice shall play," the first added in such a cajoling tone I wanted to shake her. "She is very young, after all. I wouldn't put it past her."

"Probably begat the bastard with a stable boy."

And they chatted away in such a fashion. I so sorely wished to do them harm. Never would they whisper such untruths in your presence. In my hand I held a glass of hot cider and it would have taken a slight flick of my wrist to send the liquid down upon their heads. I almost did, a moment's hesitancy staying my hand. But then Harriet swept up the stairs and whisked me off. She must have sensed my foul mood, somehow she always does.

The guests are gone now but promise to return tonight. I do not know if I should be happy at such a prospect or not. Already the New Year looks bleak.

I miss you, Cutler.

Elizabeth Swann, you say? Her father, the Governor, must then be Weatherby Swann. Uncle always spoke highly of him. I am surprised he offered you such trouble. But then again, uncle could not be counted on to judge a man's character well. Miss Swann may very well be a brat. Given the circumstances it seems you handled her outburst in a seemly fashion. Though the thought of you having a pistol pressed to your throat does not ease my mind at all. Do you think she would make an attempt on your life? If her addled mind leads her to marry a blacksmith then who knows what she might do.

Marcus and his mare are well, I am assured. I presented him with the apple you requested and slipped him a sugar lump from myself. I hope you do not mind.

Ah yes, Mr. Sparrow. I recall your tales with clarity for some were delightful and others dreadful. I know I need not urge you to take care, but I beg it of you. Pirates are wily and wicked, a rather dangerous combination.

It seems strange to wish you a cheery Christmastide and a pleasant New Year, for this letter will certainly reach you long after the holiday has past. Instead, I leave with the words of Euripides and pray you hold them dear to your heart.

"Love is all we have, the only way that each can help the other."

You dearest wife,

Lady Anne Beckett