Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter ten of "Delicacy". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed cazonetta, PirateKnightoftheRings, Rohkal, Scarlet Snidget, 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 Ten
Elizabeth was already awake when the guard brought her breakfast the next morning. She sat on the edge of her bed, garbed in plain blue short gown and a cream-colored petticoat. Her hair was twisted back in a pretty bun, two long, delicate locks curling about the base of her neck.
The guard set her tray down on the side table, one curious eye on her indifferent features. He gestured at the bowl of porridge and the black, cold looking mug of coffee.
"Miss."
"I don't want it." Elizabeth braced her hands on the bed. The guard shook his head.
"Not my business."
"Actually, it is."
He fidgeted now. A thick thumb hooked into his pocket and he shifted his sinewy legs.
"Miss-"
"You will inform Lord Beckett that I desire to dine with him this morning. We did not have the opportunity to finish our conversation last night."
The guard laughed. Elizabeth shot to her feet.
"I think you will do it, sir," she said, letting her voice groan under the threat she intended to pose. "I think you will go and speak with Lord Beckett directly. And do hurry, I am not the least bit patient."
Memories of idle days flitted across her mind. Elizabeth remembered her life as the governor's only daughter, the governor's beloved child and the jewel of Port Royal. There had not been a man then or a woman who would not hasten to do her bidding. Haughty, yes, she had been haughty. The mark of Cain, the brand of good-breeding had been laid upon her and it was indestructible, a thing that would remain until Death sharpened his scythe and wielded it against her. And even Lord Beckett could not deprive her of that.
The guard stared at the tray like a lost dog, his jaw tensing and tightening.
"His lordship made no mention of such."
"Then remind him."
She would not be swayed. No, Elizabeth needed this, needed to capture the first pawn and win at least one victory. How else might she secure Lord Beckett's favor?
The guard hesitated still, but his heavy feet took him to the door and down the hall. Elizabeth waited, impatient. It was still raining. She heard the gentle patter, the whisper of the breeze on the rooftop.
A moment passed and the guard returned. He stepped to the side, held open the door and glanced into the corridor.
"His lordship is waiting, miss."
A small victory, but a victory none-the-less. Elizabeth did not fuss over the details. Why had Beckett ceded so easily? She reminded herself that he was a curious creature and she would make herself a mystery, one that he would hopefully never unravel.
The house seemed somehow brighter that morning and although the sky was still treacherously grey, faint light dripped through the long windows. Elizabeth walked demurely behind the guard and was led to a separate room, one which she had never been in. The door was open, revealing a small, yet stately study. Lord Beckett sat at a round table, his china tea service perched on a silver platter. There were linen napkins edged with lace, dainty pitchers of cream and a sugar bowl. And Lord Beckett mirrored the genteel appearance of his china. He was wearing a blue brocade frock coat and Elizabeth thought the color suited his eyes.
The guard bowed his way out into the hall and shut the door. Beckett contemplated his teacup for a long minute until Elizabeth thought she might burst from impatience. Her feet carried her further into the room.
"Good morning, my lord." A curtsey. Her trembling legs remembered the practice well enough, her knees bending against her skirts.
"Good morning, Miss Swann." He glanced up then and she saw it. Worry? Yes, he was worried. About what she wondered, or rather, about whom?
Mrs. Prior.
Perhaps. But Elizabeth did not think he cared enough for her or anyone else for that matter. Either way, he looked a sorry business in the dim dawn light.
"You told the guard you wished to speak with me." He leaned back in his chair.
"I lied."
"Did you now?"
"You are not going to ask why?" She rolled back her shoulders, hoping to remind him that she wasn't so subservient yet. But Beckett only shrugged gracefully and lapsed into silence.
Elizabeth felt her temper quickening, pulsing in unison with her heart.
"And how is Mrs. Prior?" she asked.
Beckett put down his teacup, the spoon falling onto the saucer with a soft, metallic clang. "Do you truly care?" he replied, "or are you simply another victim of those fantastical creatures we like to call polite society and good breeding?"
Elizabeth shrugged, the sleeves of her shortgown rustling. "I'm curious. Is she dead yet?"
For a moment, Beckett's eyes were lit with careful appreciation. "I don't know, I haven't heard. But as I have not heard, I assume she is still alive. The servants would come running to tell me. They're rather finicky about having corpses lying about."
His morbid humor struck a terrifying cord against Elizabeth's heart. She looked out the window behind him. A feeble shaft of sunlight tumbled down from the clouds, warming the rain.
"But either way, she is of little use to me." Beckett surveyed her, his plump lips pressed together. Elizabeth inhaled and slowly, regained her composure.
"Pity. What did you have planned for her today? More senseless assassinations? A trip to the slums?"
Beckett laughed quietly. "She misses London, hates the hovels here. Your father's little kingdom is not at all to her liking."
"Because it is decent."
"Because she can be seen." Beckett gestured at an empty chair by his elbow. "You intend to sit, I assume?"
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "If that is what his lordship wishes," she said, mocking both him and herself in the same, tense breath.
"I am ever your humble servant, madam." He stood, his shoulders and head inclined in a haughty bow. Elizabeth gathered her cream-colored skirts and threw herself in the chair. It jolted, clawed feet digging into the wide floorboards. Beckett sat.
"Tea?"
"Yes." But she served herself. Beckett brought his own teacup to his smiling lips.
"Why have you come here, Miss Swann?"
"Certainly not to negotiate," she said, the last word sticking in her throat. Elizabeth felt as though she were choking and took a gulp of burning tea.
"Then I am disappointed."
"Really? I should have thought otherwise." Elizabeth ran her fingertips over the linen tablecloth. It felt smooth, pleasantly cool beneath her skin and she found she missed fine things. Lord Beckett's fingers arched over his spoon.
"Why have you come here, Miss Swann?"
"I don't know," she lied. "Perhaps I am confused."
The sun fell behind the clouds once more and Elizabeth felt the chilly spray of rain kiss her cheeks. Lord Beckett rose and walked to the shutters.
"I see no reason for confusion."
"I do." Elizabeth drained her teacup. "It is you, my lord."
The shutters clicked closed. Beckett leaned against them. Silence draped over the room.
"When were you last in London, Miss Swann?" he asked at length, half-turning. Elizabeth shifted in her chair. Certainly her plan, her feminine charm had not corrupted his mind already. And strangely, her own heart leapt, bounded against her ribcage and left her feeling feeble.
"My lord?" She couldn't remember the question.
"London, Miss Swann."
Elizabeth stared at her hands, folded tightly over her lap. London? She remembered London, the gray, indistinct blur that it was. Men, women, children. The streets seemed fit to burst. The jingle of harness. Cockney cries. Her father's warm hand pressed against hers.
"Come along, Elizabeth."
She had her mother's doll, not that she was at all delighted by the frozen face, the blank eyes. But it had been her mother's and now her living cheek pressed against porcelain. She could remember….
"Eleven years."
Beckett was back in his chair and he lifted the lid of the tea pot. At once, the aroma spiced the air, driving away the clinging moisture, the heady odor of rain.
"You were too young then, too young to miss it now."
"Do you, my lord?" Elizabeth watched as he replenished her cup and dropped another sugar cube in.
"Yes."
"But not for the same reasons as Mrs. Prior, I suspect."
"A grand assumption that is." Beckett let his hands fall over the arms of his chair, his languid fingers dangling like icicles over the striking yet frivolous carvings. "You think that we have nothing in common?"
"I fear such." Elizabeth ignored her tea now. A new warmth arose in her stomach and she suddenly found it hard to look at Lord Beckett. He did have a certain elegance about him unlike Will and even Norrington. She had never thought of a man as pretty before, but he was and still so very masculine. With eager eyes she studied the brocade pattern on his coat sleeve. It was of flowers, entwined flowers.
Beckett laughed and the sound returned her to the world, the living earth and the rain that now battered the shutters.
"Mrs. Prior and I are similar in some small ways, but quite different in others. She is…damaged. Much ill has been done to her and much ill she has done to herself. I do not think she will ever be well."
"Then would you care if she did die?" Elizabeth asked.
Beckett did not answer. A knock on the door saved him and Elizabeth noted his relief. She saw it in his eyes, yes, she was getting rather good at reading his eyes. They widened slightly as he stood, a short sigh dancing past his lips.
"Enter."
Polly let herself into the study. She shut the door and curtsied once, patting her mobcap into place. Elizabeth frowned. The maid obviously hadn't slept and she looked harried. Her hands twisted in her apron.
"It's Mrs. Prior, my lord," she said in a meek, but pained voice.
Beckett raised a brow. "Oh?"
"She's…she's been ill all night. A fever, I think. It's left her senseless. Weeping for her dead husband and daughter. Can't you send for the surgeon, my lord? It's become a disturbance, a distraction. The servants can't care for her, my lord."
"The surgeon?" Beckett had a distinctly ruffled appearance, his neck arched indignantly. Polly seemed to sense at once that her cause was lost. Her hands fell against her apron, her shoulders bowed under the yoke of her futile position. Beckett smiled crookedly.
"I will not send for the surgeon. Ignore Mrs. Prior."
"But my lord." Polly could not stop herself. Elizabeth saw her take a trembling step forward. "She's frightfully ill, my lord, deathly ill."
Beckett's smile twisted into a frown and deep, worried lines framed his lips. "Leave her be."
His voice was soft, gentle even, but dangerous. Elizabeth's skin prickled, the tiny, fine hairs on her arms standing on end. She felt as though the shutters were still open and rain spilled in across her back.
Polly somehow managed a curtsey. "Yes, my lord."
The door closed behind her. Beckett sat and dropped his hands into his lap, looking vexed. Elizabeth stared at him, unable to look away. Was there concern in his eyes? Did worry twine about his thoughts? She imagined Mrs. Prior, more dead than alive, in some tight, cramped bed with the dark-faced servants ignoring her pleas for help. Did the fires of Hell already torment her?
Lord Beckett cleared his throat suddenly and turned back to his tea.
"I think the more apt question, Miss Swann, is do you care if she dies?" he said. "She didn't care about your father, I should say."
Elizabeth felt her resolve unravel, the thread of her composure pulled taut until it snapped. She stood, threw back the table and was pleased when two of his fine teacups smashed on the floor. The shattered porcelain greatly resembled a gray storm cloud and the jagged edges nipped at her ankles.
"You wish to provoke me?" she asked, her voice seething, boiling as rage bubbled in her blood.
Beckett turned in his chair, one hand perched on his hip, his elbow protruding at a jaunty angle. "I wish to test you," he said.
That frightened Elizabeth. Her soul trembled, shuddering beneath some inescapable wave of darkness.
So much for seduction….
She fled the chamber, terrified, enraged and the guard caught her arm by the door.
"You are a flighty girl," he said, ushering her back down the hall. "What with all your comings and goings."
Elizabeth wrenched her arm from his grasp, backing into her chamber like some maddened lioness. And for the first time in her life, she felt immortal, invincible, unstoppable. She would win this battle yet.
"You may tell his lordship," she spat as the guard closed the door in her face, "that I hope Mrs. Prior dies. And if the fever does not kill her outright, I certainly will!"
Beckett glanced down at the shattered teacups on his study floor.
Disgraceful.
The Swann girl was indeed wild, uncontrollable, so like Camilla, yet different. He touched one fractured rim with the toe of his boot.
Camilla had never broken his finery or furniture. No, she had turned her rage inward and let it break her.
Beckett stood, rounded the table and threw open the shutters. Rain poured in and he felt strangely relieved. He let his brow become damp, wet with humid Caribbean kisses.
He was, perhaps, making some progress, though not nearly enough.
And then he remembered his lessons to Camilla. Restraint. It was he who had abandoned control today. He should have corrected Miss Swann's knowledge, informed her that her father was in fact alive. But some sordid part of him wanted to see her angry, angry with him.
It thrilled him.
Ah, he had a fine mess on his hands now. No compass, no distant hope of the chest. And now he had an ill Mrs. Prior to contend with and Miss Swann, who seemed to linger on the edge of his dominance, but shied away all too easily.
What was he to do?
Another cup of tea seemed in order and he wanted to have a chat with dear Mrs. Prior as well. Dying, humph, she certainly wasn't dying. Not yet, anyway. He needed her still.