Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter nine of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed cazonetta, Olivegreeneyes, and Ladybug21. I have no beta for this fic (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer:I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter Nine

For a week it stormed. Rain was spat from the sky in a relentless wave and more than once, Mrs. Prior fancied that God had broken his covenant with mankind and was fixing to flood the world again. Not that she would mind, really, because her skin burned just as unceasingly as the rain battered the narrow streets of Port Royal. She was feverish and harried and felt altogether ill. And even with a bottle of laudanum kept in her pocket, she still could not escape the pain in her hand. If anything, it had gotten worse.

But despite such torment, she was happy. Pain had never bothered her much and she could contend with illness. And so shrugged off her weariness, took to the streets and taverns as Lord Beckett instructed and at night, gratefully retired to his bed chamber. She didn't even mind that he dined with the Swann whore every eve, for in the end he came to her, called her name and looked to her for pleasure, for comfort.

It was a late Friday afternoon when she came in from some small errand. Polly sat in the kitchen and the pickings of Lord Beckett's supper were on the table. Curiously, Mrs. Prior lifted the lid of one silver platter and saw an empty soup bowl. So the Swann girl had started eating after all.

"Yours is on the sideboard, ma'am," Polly said. She polished a silver fork with her stained apron. Mrs. Prior shook her head.

"Not hungry."

"But you should eat, ma'am, what with the laudanum-"

"Not hungry." Mrs. Prior fished in her musty pocket for the green bottle and drank. A haze entombed her mind, falling like a curtain over reason and thought. But the pain was still there.

Polly stared at her.

"Are you well, ma'am?"

Mrs. Prior wiped her muddy boots on the threshold. The rain had not let up and it drummed on the kitchen roof like a thousand fingertips. Mrs. Prior shut her eyes against the echo. It seemed as though boot heels smashed into her temples and kicked her in the gut until she could scarce breathe.

"Where is his lordship?"

"Upstairs, ma'am."

"And the Swann whore?"

"In her room."

"Good, they are done for the night."

Mrs. Prior shrugged off her coat and laid it over the back of a chair. She would go to Lord Beckett. He was waiting, he always was and she had news to tell him.

Leaving the kitchen, she pulled herself up the long flight of stairs and dark they were in the storm shadows. Candles had been lit along the corridor and she paused by Swann's door. Silence and nothing more. Good.

Lord Beckett was, as she had guessed, waiting for her and he welcomed her with a little nod and a half-hidden smile. Mrs. Prior had come to enjoy his affection. In fact, she had learned that it was not something to shy from, but rather to embrace. After all, things were much more pleasant that way and Mrs. Prior missed soft, pleasant things.

He stood by the window, the curtains parted, the shutters thrown back. One hand perched on his hip.

"What's that down by the docks?" he asked when she stepped into the chamber. A low fire burned in the hearth, but still Mrs. Prior sweated.

"A little workshop caught fire," she said. The storming sky was tinged with red.

"Oh." Lord Beckett glanced at her and she knew what he thought. His eyes were wide. Mrs. Prior shifted, shaking her head. She did not want to think back to London just now.

"They're saying the Swann girl is dead."

"Are they?" He laughed. "And the governor?"

"Soon to be hanged."

"Foolish peasants, the lot of them."

Mrs. Prior smiled, the skin about her mouth stretched taut. Something stung her lips and her body burned, as though she had taken a draught of hot wine all at once. She fussed with her hair in it's loose queue and it fell free. Beckett glanced at her over his shoulder.

"Eager, are we?"

She did not answer, but pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. Beckett smiled.

"You've been a good girl this week, Camilla. Restrained. I am proud of you."

His praise was unexpected, but she basked in it.

"Is there any news of Turner? The compass?"

Mrs. Prior swallowed away a smile. His hope was charming, as was his anticipation. She hated to disappoint him.

"No. I spoke with Captain Greville today. His ship came in this morning. Nothing, he said. Turner may have found Sparrow already, but there has been no sign of either of them. Word was passed along, though and our officers have their eyes open."

Beckett turned from the window. "How very vexing."

"I am sorry, my lord."

"Our progress is stunted." He paced and Mrs. Prior watched him. His steps were short, agitated, his head rocking from side to side. "We must advance things."

"But how, my lord?" Mrs. Prior leaned against the windowsill. Her legs were like water and she felt herself slipping, slipping far away into some dark abyss. A hand clawed at her, tried to pull her beneath the waves where she would drown. But she forced herself upright. Lord Beckett mumbled to himself.

"The Swann girl, we must make use of her."

Mrs. Prior didn't much like the sound of that, but held her tongue. She kicked off her boots and stumbled over to the bed, unable to resist the call of sleep. The feather mattress greeted her, embraced her like a friend and for a moment the pain faded. She fancied that she was back in London and John was still sleeping beside her and little Betty was rushing into their chamber, her bare feet tapping on the floor….

"You still take liberties." Lord Beckett stopped pacing. Mrs. Prior opened her eyes and lifted her head an inch off the pillow.

"I'm sorry, my lord."

"It's the damned laudanum." But still he came to her side and she lifted the blankets for him. She would be his mistress, if he wished, she did not mind so much anymore. After all, she was to him everything the Swann girl wasn't and that was pleasing enough.

Lord Beckett, however, seemed unable to put the wench from his mind.

"What am I going to do with Miss Swann?" he asked.

"I don't know, my lord," she murmured. The shadows were whispering it seemed and there was a howling noise in her ears, like wind, like flames….

"You never do," he grunted, his lips forming a smothering seal over her mouth.


A fitful sleep fell over Elizabeth and she dozed in her chamber, her dressing gown resting in silken folds over her shoulders. But the night was one of storms and anger and she found she could not rest for long, not when a week had passed and she had progressed little in her bid for freedom.

God she was tired. Weariness crept into her bones, slithered beneath her flesh and made her a pale, harried creature.

Seven nights. She had spent seven nights in Lord Beckett's company, taking her evening meals in his opulent dining room. And each time she learned to talk a little more, to touch on subjects that held interest for them both.

Will. The compass. Sparrow.

She had told him the full of her previous adventure and time aboard Barbossa's ship. His lordship had seemed only mildly intrigued by such a tale and he brushed away most of her stories with a practiced look, his gaze gliding haughtily down his nose.

And she was vexed now, so very vexed. What did he want?

Elizabeth was not a naïve girl, nor did she ignore the ageless ways of the world that carried on just outside her father's rose garden. Thoughts of lust and other sordid, sinful things crossed her mind. But then she doubted that Lord Beckett could be so foolish. He had Mrs. Prior, his London gutter rat, for a mistress. Keeping herself, the governor's own daughter, for such a purpose invited disaster. Surely he had a greater plan and if not, she would be most disappointed. The man who had disrupted her wedding, sent Will on a useless hunt and overthrown the King's governor had to be smarter than that.

Elizabeth kicked off the blankets and rolled onto her side. Rain. She heard the gentle cadence, the rhythmic staccato of water slapping the roof and drifting down the side of the elegant house. And somewhere far away, she heard a roar, the hiss of dying flames.

A strange lullaby, she thought, but it suited her agitation. She pressed her head against the pillow and let her eyes close. Well, there was always tomorrow and she might try again with Beckett….

A scream shattered the night. Elizabeth jerked up in bed, the sound ripping through her flesh like a white hot blade. A woman was screaming somewhere, desperately, in pain. Elizabeth's heart jumped into her mouth where it remained for a beat or two.

Dear God.

Her limbs were shaking and she rose, racing across her chamber. The door stood in her way, that black, solid thing that partitioned the darkness. She threw herself at it, ignoring the sting of splinters that shredded her palms.

The woman was still screaming.

Mrs. Prior? Elizabeth was terrified. What was Beckett doing to her? Horrors congregated amongst her thoughts and drove away all reason until she thought she would weep. And weep she did, as she beat upon the door and begged to be let out.

The scream broke, fading into wild wailing and ruptured, heart-rending sobs. Elizabeth's skin prickled. Never before had she heard such a sound, such a noise of unending, torturous grief.

And for some strange reason, she thought of her mother, the woman that now lay in a cold English graveyard.

She could not stand her captivity and she was wild, mad with fear.

"Open!" she shrieked. "Open this door!"

Pain nipped at her lungs. Elizabeth took a deep breathe and threw herself against the door. The hinges rattled, sounding like old, rusty bones, but the lock held.

"Let me out!"

Dear God, the woman was still weeping.

"Let me out!"

The lock clicked open, the door gave way and Elizabeth spilled into the corridor in a flash of silk and sweaty hair. Polly the maid stood before her.

"What's happened?" Elizabeth panted. She braced herself against the wall, the shadows pressing against her with their smothering kisses.

"Mrs. Prior," the girl muttered. "Bad dreams, bad dreams again. Lord Beckett does not suffer such. She'll be put out."

Elizabeth wrapped her dressing gown tight about her, shielding herself from the sudden chill and the wordless threat that enveloped Beckett's house.

"I don't understand."

A guard came to the top of the stairs and handed Polly a candle. Golden fingertips of light parted the darkness and Elizabeth was reminded of the sun and just how much she longed for it.

"She'll be put out," Polly repeated. Down the hall another door opened and despite her resolve, her bravery, Elizabeth could not contain herself. She yelped when she saw the ghost fall out into the corridor, for a ghost the woman was, her skin the color of a storming sky and her eyes streaked with terror.

The ghost stood, stumbled a step, then collapsed.

"I'm sorry…I never meant…the candle." With a thin hand she lifted her black hair, her widow's veil. Mrs. Prior was nearly unrecognizable. Tears diluted the sweat on her cheeks and Elizabeth thought she beheld a dying woman. Something was wretchedly wrong….

Trembling, the villain, the once eager murderess, cowered in the corner, garbed in naught but a thin, virgin white shift. Lord Beckett strode into the corridor and leaned over her, his mahogany curls falling in beatific disarray about his shoulders.

Elizabeth felt an unforgiving wave of heat sweep through her. He too was in naught but his nightclothes, a pair of thin breeches and a shirt.

"Screaming at all hours of the night," he snarled, his nose wrinkling as he studied the pitiful creature at his feet. "What's the matter with her?"

Polly stepped forward and thrust her candle directly under Mrs. Prior's chin. "I wager she's taken ill, my lord or else she's mad. One can never tell with Mrs. Prior."

"Hmm, indeed." Beckett ran a finger along her cheek and then withdrew it, as if by touching her his own flesh would absorb her sickness.

It was then, in the quiet corridor, in the still hall with the whispering candle flame, that Elizabeth witnessed something most remarkable. There were three guards on the stairs now and each craned a neck to get a better look at Mrs. Prior. And each in turn shook his head, mumbling insults and injuries as if their words could flay the skin from her bones.

Polly the maid pushed her candle closer and made Mrs. Prior flinch. Wax pooled about the base of the holder and dripped dangerously close to the woman's foot. Lord Beckett was staring at his pet as though she had gone rabid and foamed at the mouth. Elizabeth herself felt revulsion stir within her stomach, along with unceasing disdain.

And in such a manner, Mrs. Prior lost all of her power.

Elizabeth marveled at her reduced state and how quickly they had turned against her, now shunning her like the miserable wretch she truly was.

No longer did Mrs. Prior possess the uncanny ability to instill fear. No longer could she stride through the halls with her whispering footsteps and conjure carefully crafted threats to torment those who opposed her. No longer was she the woman in the black, the dreaded, haunted presence that bewitched all with her calm smile. Her balanced domination, the sheer delicacy of her hold over house was shredded.

Something had changed and so had Mrs. Prior.

Beckett made a small noise in the back of his throat. "She's delirious. To the servants' quarters. I shan't have that thing in my chamber."

This obviously did not appeal to Polly. Her hand shook, the candle weeping wax.

"She'll keep us up half the night, my lord."

"Perhaps." Beckett seemed unconcerned. He nudged at Mrs. Prior with his foot and she struggled to her feet, her eyes slits of pain.

"My blood," she moaned, "it's in my blood and bones." And she shivered violently.

"See, my lord," Polly sniveled. "She'll be at it all night, terror that she is. You ought to put her out in the street."

"No." Beckett rolled his shoulders. Elizabeth caught sight of his pink flesh, the muscles tensing and clenching beneath his night shirt. She looked away.

Mrs. Prior took a shaky step forward then crumpled to the floor. Her shift stuck to her skin and even Elizabeth was ashamed of her undressed state.

"She can't walk," Polly tried once more.

"Then carry her."

A reluctant guard moved into the corridor. With little ceremony or care, he stooped down, gathered up Mrs. Prior and threw her over his shoulder. She cried that they were hurting her, but her pleas were ignored and soon she faded away, down the stairs and out into the storm.

The spell was broken and Elizabeth felt suddenly alive again. Lord Beckett sighed.

"How very unfortunate." He shook his head and in doing so, noticed her standing in the hall. "Why Miss Swann, I do hope we didn't disturb you."

Her voice died, her body locking and freezing when he looked at her.

"Not at all," she managed, a sneer making her words cold.

Beckett nodded and turned back into his chamber. "Good." A second guard stepped forward. Elizabeth grudgingly returned to her prison, cursing as the door was shut and footsteps echoed, then disappeared into the night.

Her heart was still pounding when she laid herself down, though her mind sharpened. She took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air of the chamber and the lingering perfume of the white rose.

She understood things now and more importantly, she understood Lord Beckett.

Mrs. Prior was no more. Her reign had ended. She was no longer Beckett's jewel, but some strange, ill thing. Lord Beckett would soon need another. And he clearly wanted her.

Elizabeth's stomach clenched. She curled herself under the coverlets and pretended that Will slumbered peacefully beside her. But where was Will?

Elizabeth needed to know and Lord Beckett needed her. Perhaps they could reach a compromise?

No, no she would not compromise. She did not want to become Mrs. Prior, after all.

The mere notion set Elizabeth's heart throbbing. But she would never be Mrs. Prior, for she was loved and possessed that most coveted treasure, a life worth living.

And yet something nagged at her, gnawed at her resolve and eroded her hope. Perhaps Mrs. Prior had once been loved. Perhaps she had once been happy and enjoyed her life. Could a person truly be born so wretched?

With difficulty, she dragged her thoughts back to Lord Beckett. Mrs. Prior's supremacy was over and hers would begin. Elizabeth Swann was not a naïve girl and she was well aware of the art of seduction and the base things that transpired outside her father's rose garden. But she would not wait until tomorrow night, until the ebony veil drained the sky of it's glory. Tomorrow morning, yes, she would begin to demand things of Beckett, end her torturous limbo, her unsure existence. And she would not compromise.