Progressing Against Propriety
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.
A/N: This is officially Part II of the story. I am estimating another 10 chapters before it is finished. Additionally, this chapter is split into 2, being so long. Expect a continuation (chapter 11) soon.
The day began on a dismal note, dreary and without a lick of sunshine, the clouds gathering in a gray throng with a veil of blinding white fog in their midst. Rain threatened; did not come. Yet, the chambermaid Marianna was certain of its impending arrival as she made her rounds through the mansion: a delivery of steaming tea to the Governor's study, passing converse with the candid kitchen servants, parting the curtains and opening doors to air rooms which saw scarce use. These tasks she performed at the striking hour of dawn. Her final morning duty was summoning her charge, Elizabeth Swann, nay Turner, a duty she executed with some wariness of late. The duplicity she had partaken in ever since her mistress's marriage to that boy, to that blacksmith—what ever did she see in him?; certainly, he had naught to recommend him—had caused her some reluctance and uneasiness. A feeling of guilt stole over her whenever she told a small falsehood to the Governor—the Governor of Port Royal, for heaven's sake!—yet she assured herself on such occasions of her duty to serve her mistress at all costs. She often wondered, in spite of this, whether that constituted lying.
Alas! Accounts from the other servants about the household depicted Elizabeth as a sweet child, quite amiable, and a clear favourite of Marianna's predecessor, Estrella. Indeed, upon meeting Elizabeth after her scarce spoken of pirate kidnapping, Marianna could not help but succumb to the endearing gleam in her new mistress's eyes. She was won over by Elizabeth's sweet and charming nature and knew that she would cater to the girl to her utmost ability. "Yes, Miss Swann," she responded to Elizabeth's every inquiry. She was such a pleasant girl, going on outings in her best dress and returning to the household with her face all aglow and her manner unremittingly cheerful, fanciful. "What an angel!" Marianna had thought. "So unaffected, so naïve and genteel!"
She had possessed no inkling that her dear Elizabeth's exuberant nature was due to the fact that she was courting her childhood companion William Turner, the town blacksmith. She had possessed no inkling of the cunning and fiery spirit within her dear Elizabeth, no inkling of her rebellious streak, of her disregard for propriety and utter disdain for societal establishment. Not then, no. Elizabeth was still an angel, the belle of English society set to marry a nobleman.
Marianna had experienced such shock upon discovering the truth that evening when her eyes seemed to open for the first time since assuming her station at the mansion. She had entered her mistress's bedroom to place coals neath her covers to ensure her warmth when—lo and behold! The window was open; cold air blew in and the curtains fluttered. Elizabeth Swann—dear, innocent girl—was being seized in the arms of a man who held her captive against his body whilst forcing his lips on hers. Oh! How Marianna did scream! The noise caused the man to release Elizabeth. Marianna was prepared to dash the coals over the man's head when her mistress released such fury as Marianna had never before witnessed.
This was Elizabeth Swann, a woman of experience rather than a naïve child. The discrepancy brought shame to Marianna. How could she be so foolish, so oblivious to the truth?
The man was William Turner, the object of Elizabeth's dearest affections. Not long after that incident, the couple was formally betrothed. Not long after their betrothal, they were married. Married. And Marianna should no longer treat her as "my mistress," yet she continued to do so, perhaps out of nostalgic hope for that which had never been.
As Marianna walked through the west wing, she contemplated the perception that Elizabeth Swann had been corrupted by marriage. Where had she gone wrong? What proper woman would go so strongly against the will of society? Marianna shook her head; sighed. Poor Elizabeth, tarnished soul. She would never ascend to Heaven.
As Marianna set to opening the doors of the vacant rooms, she was taken by surprise by a door that had already been opened; it stood ajar. With curiosity, she entered. It was a spare room, quite sparse, the only articles of furniture being a small settee and a piano. But what caught Marianna's attention was not the settee and piano, but rather the figure seated before the piano. Marianna started.
"Miss Elizabeth?"
The silhouette of a woman stirred but did not turn about.
Marianna approached. The gray light of the morning gave her mistress's face a pallid appearance. "Miss Elizabeth, what are you doing?" she asked, for lack of other words.
Elizabeth stroked the dusty keys of the piano with a slender finger. "I never learnt to play, you know," she murmured, and struck a note.
Marianna winced; the instrument was severely out of tune. "Miss…you should come down to breakfast."
Elizabeth uttered a long sigh and pushed her long curls from her face with her hands, coming to look at Marianna full in the eyes. "That's rather superfluous, don't you think?"
Marianna did not know what to say in response to this. There was a strange gleam in her mistress's eyes, a gleam she did not care to question. "Where is Mr. Turner?" she attempted once more.
At the mention of the name, Elizabeth's countenance softened. "My husband," she murmured, slow and deliberate. "He is…"
"Elizabeth." Another voice entered the room—strong, beckoning, commanding in its tone.
Marianna looked towards the door at the man in question. Without a glance at the chambermaid, he strode to Elizabeth, leaning down to wrap his arms around her waist, kissing her neck before whispering in her ear.
Marianna reddened at this forward display of affection. The impropriety! Wedded or not, this was certainly not appropriate behaviour, certainly not. "What a husband she has landed," Marianna thought in derision to herself. The man continued to fondle Elizabeth with no regard to Marianna's presence whatsoever, with no regard to decorum.
A clearing of the throat caused Marianna to blink, realizing that both her mistress and Mr. Turner stood, the latter having a glaring and accusatory glint in his eyes. Marianna felt abashed for staring, for judging. She turned, and without a word, started to leave, when Elizabeth said,
"No, Will, wait a moment. Marianna came to ask what I was doing, and I believe I should tell her."
Marianna stopped, turned back round.
Elizabeth's eyes were bright and cold. "I was just thinking, what if I had married an upper-class gentleman? Lieutenant Greys, for example."
Marianna noticed William Turner's hand tighten upon Elizabeth's arm.
"How different my life would be," Elizabeth continued with a sigh.
Marianna felt a flicker of hope—perhaps her mistress was finally coming to her senses.
"A lifelong dream of every girl, is it not, Marianna? To be an ornament, a symbol of social status, a vessel for the accomplished husband to enact sexual and political conquest time and time again…" Her voice cracked, moisture filled her eyes.
The man, William Turner, was murmuring to her. But Marianna failed to see or hear them anymore. For they, the Turners, had failed to see her for weeks now. She had been so biased, so prejudiced. Her mistress Elizabeth Swann was married to—dare she say it?—the man she loved, William Turner. For failing to realize this, Marianna was scorned and unwanted. Her cheeks burned with shame. "Mr. and Mrs. Turner, I am so sorry—" she said, but soon perceived that she was speaking to an empty room, for the couple had left, never to be seen by her eyes again. She sat down upon the settee and a cloud a dust rose up round her.
"I'm sorry."
"For what?" Will murmured, holding Elizabeth in his arms, breathing in her scent.
"For…saying those things. It was unwarranted," she replied.
Will stepped back, lifted her face, kissed her cheeks damp and tasting of salt. "Don't worry," he whispered, his eyes laden, dark and beautiful. "I will put this madness to rest. Those thoughts will nevermore plague your mind."
She grasped his collar in an abrupt fit of passion, her eyes fierce. "You shouldn't have to do this. I would willingly go in your place. It is my turn to dally with fate, after all."
To her surprise, a smile curved his lips, soft laughter thereafter. "I do recall you implicating as such, after which I was unfairly persuaded into acquiescence."
She returned a smile, unable to resist his, so infectious. "What do you mean, you were 'unfairly persuaded'?"
"Well…" His smile broadened and he placed his hands at her waist. "I believe it had something to do with our engagement in more pleasurable activity, but I can't be certain."
Her eyes burned gold and she wrapped her hands about his neck, pressing her lips to his ear. "Would you like reminding? I am willing to 'persuade' you as many times as is necessary."
He swallowed. Her voice was quiet and sultry, the utter closeness of her lips excruciating. He cleared his throat. "Ehem, no. That is…unneeded."
"But, Will," she whined, her lips lingering for a moment at the juncture of his jaw and neck before her teeth grazed his earlobe.
"God, Elizabeth," he moaned, breathless, capturing her lips with such force that she weakened in his arms.
She was panting, her breast heaving, her eyes brilliant when he broke away from her. His countenance shadowed over in a veil of regret and sorrow.
"My love, I cannot have you while this darkness lingers over us."
Elizabeth bit her lip, her severe want of him intensified, in fact, by the situation which hung over their heads. The blade was poised; it had only to drop with a certain movement, and their lives were devastated. Elizabeth stepped forward to touch his face. "What if I never see you again?"
"Don't say that," he responded, looking away from her in presumed annoyance.
"Will," she encouraged, not wishing him to practice optimism just then, wishing rather that he would be a realist, that he would see—
"Elizabeth, stop looking at me that way," he muttered, harsh when he moved her hand and jerked down her wrist. "Come—we will say goodbye in the garden, and then I must leave you." With a sharp turn of his heel, he strode out of the drawing room, through the foyer and unused study, passing through the glass doors, pulling Elizabeth along without looking at her pained and protesting visage.
"Will, please stop!" she entreated as she stumbled into the lush garden, a cold and damp wind assaulting her.
He obeyed; turned round and looked at her. His eyes withheld bitter anguish, desperate longing. "Elizabeth," he muttered, his voice soft. He touched her shoulder, traced down her arm. He gazed at her for a moment, a faint smile flickering over his features. "You own my heart," he said at last. 'T'was stated definitively, as a fact. "Should anything happen to me—"
"Will, don't…" she started, in spite of her desire to opt for realism.
"—will you keep it safe?"
She stared into his eyes, a thousand emotions welling within her, fast and hot and endless, like the blood which surges from a wound once the skin is broken by the stroke of a knife. "Yes," she answered, her voice raw from the tightening of her throat. She stepped forward, touching his chest. Her eyes glittered. "Yes."
A tear dampened his cheek. With a whimpering sigh, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her, long and deep and beautiful. Yet he parted from her too abrupt, the embrace ended too quickly, and as he turned to leave, she grabbed his arm and kissed him again, her lips lingering upon his as he lifted her off the ground and held her against his chest. His hands felt the curves and outline of her body; he pressed his face against her neck; kissed the swell of her chest; he pushed back the layered material of her skirt to graze his fingers against the bare skin of her legs as she wrapped herself around his waist.
He made love to her in the dark corner of the garden. Quick, yet passionate, his eyes holding promise as she gazed at him through tears as quivers of pleasure and agony rippled through her body.
He left her on the white bench, sheltered by standing ivy. Words were no longer spoken. She sat, watching his shadow disappear from the garden, not knowing what to think or how to feel. She was blank. The clouds were accumulating, darkening. She did not move until it started to rain, and then, she touched her hand to her lower abdomen, to the area above her womb.