Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.


Her scent lingered on his clothes. Her taste lingered on his lips. The rain splattered against his skin, raising her aroma into the air round him in a misty wreath. He turned the heavy metal key in the door. The wood resisted, having expanded from the dampness. He shoved his body against it and it flew open with a creak. The clumps of hay—the smithy floor was perpetually littered with roughage which constituted the mule's feed—crackled under his feet as he walked into the shop, warm yet filled with the reek of rainwater. He removed his coat; placed it over a chair. Removed the cloth which bound his locks; shook his head and expelled water droplets.

He strode over to the familiar rack on which hung a myriad of swords, beautifully crafted, eying each one with care. His fingers alighted upon one in the centre, shining dark silver in the dim light. Folded steel, perfectly balanced, the tang nearly the full width of the blade, gold filigree on the handle. Norrington's sword. His eyes darkened. The Commodore had left it before taking off on the seas after the adventure at the Isle de Muerta. He had found it resting upon the hearth of the smithy the day his engagement to Elizabeth Swann had been announced. He had been at first rebuffed, insulted. But then, looking at it, looking at this perfect sword, he felt superior, realizing that the Commodore possessed nothing that rightfully belonged to him. For the sword was his, the Governor's daughter was his: the pride of his heart. He lifted the sword from the rack, running his fingers along the blade, so familiar.

"You will do," he murmured. He touched the end of the sword to test its sharpness, and smiled. He was pleased that Norrington had not used it to bluntness, had not used it very much at all, for it still appeared new to him, as fine as it had the day he presented it to Governor Swann. "Oh, but now I shall present you as retribution rather than compliment." He envisioned the mark he would leave upon the Greys, the both of them. The satisfying slash of the sword upon the skin to cause blood to gather to the surface gradually, the fine sliver of flesh changing from pink to scarlet; the depth of the small wound incalculable, the red liquid beginning to pool at the edges of the wound; and the blood finally gushing forth, the dark rivulets swathing the body, at once enlivened, at once a corpse.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, William."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, spinning about, extending the sword to defend against an invisible opponent.

A figure emerged from the shadows. Boots, long waist-coat, a tricorn. The swarthy face—the figure revealed himself.

"Jack?" Will lowered the sword, a breath of relief escaping him. "What're you doing here?"

The pirate smiled, gold glinting. "Didn't think ol' Jack would leave you high an' dry, did you?"

Will did not answer.

"So what's your plan? Lure the bastards here, gut them like fish, and abscond the premises with tracks of blood in your wake?"

He braced his shoulders, his countenance darkening. "I wouldn't put it quite like that, Jack."

"Really, now?" Jack stepped up to him, fixing upon him a shrewd glare. "Remember when…" he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, as if in thought. "…oh, not too long ago now, I asked you what you'd be willing to do to save your bonny lass?"

Will lifted his eyes to meet Jack's. "I would still die for her."

The corner of Jack's lips twitched, though he did not smile. "That was purely a rhetorical question, mate; I didn't think you'd take it to heart. Carnage would certainly fail to leave an amiable impression on your beloved, 'specially if you're in the midst of it." Jack gestured with his hands, and a wicked image filled Will's mind, but he shook his head in a hurry to erase it.

He felt his sword between his hands once more, and a sudden power seemed to consume him. "I know what I'm doing Jack. I'm going to use this sword to kill Greys."

Jack drew his own sword, angling the blade at Will's throat. "I can't let you do that, William. If Greys is dead, then all our lives are in considerably more danger."

Will glared at him, shoving his sword away. "Our lives, Jack? Or yours?"

Jack thought fast; Admiral Greys was the one from whom he could earn pardon. Though the man wanted him in the noose, a little persuasion could certainly provide Jack enough time. Just as it had before, when he struck a deal with one Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company. He could do it again, and this time—this time he would lie low, give the Company what they wanted, pirate under the guise of a privateer. He could exist in this manner for years. Years, if Greys was not dead. Dead, and Norrington and his ilk would continue their rampage against him. Having granted him clemency, so to speak, once, he would not be willing to do it again.

"Now William, surely you have more faith in me than that? Who am I, Jack Sparrow, to shun the wellbeing of others in order to achieve my own ends?"

Will regarded him with a wary eye.

"I only ask you to think of the repercussions," Jack urged. "Imagine what the Royal Navy will think when they come upon slain bodies in your smithy. Who will they blame? Your work will have been for naught; you will be sent straight to the noose, along with your dearly beloved."

Will pondered his words, letting down his guard, and thinking very much of Elizabeth, of her safety, of her life. What good would it be if all this resulted in was death?

"Governor Swann will have been right on the mark all along. He will have evidence behind his claims that you were a bad match for his daughter, a dark stain upon his good name. You will be remembered only as the man who tarnished the royalty of Port Royal, the man who—"

"Shut it!" Will seized, grasping Jack by the lapels of his coat, and shoving him hard against the wall, positioning his sword at Jack's throat. Will's eyes blazed with fury; he appeared as if he might run Jack through there and then. Jack yet smiled. Smiled.

"I presume you've come to reason, then?"

With a grunt of disgust, Will released him, sending him to barrel backwards into a pile of hot coals.

Will turned away, ignoring the pirate's cry of "Bugger!", and ran his shaking hands through his locks, pacing, pacing, thinking only then of Elizabeth. Elizabeth alone in the garden, susceptible. Susceptible, but not defenseless, thank Heaven for that—she kept a sword in the cupboard of her bedroom, a sword she knew how to handle quite well, due to his teachings. There was also a pistol, of course, hidden in the drawer where her most intimate evening garments were kept. Strategic placement. Even if Marianna or another of the probing maids happened upon that drawer, they would shut it quick in embarrassment and never venture to look in again. She is armed, Will thought, his guilt over leaving her abating ever so slightly in this reassurance. She would know what to do with the sword, there was no doubt. He could not fathom her resorting to the pistol, could not fathom her firing bullets unless it was absolutely necessary. She would not have murder on her hands. Yet, would he? Would he, in good conscience, be able to kill a person, even if that person wanted him dead?

"All right," Will consented, turning back to look upon Jack, who stood brushing bits of charcoal from his person. "What will you have me do?"

"Anything at all, William," he replied with utmost simplicity, striding towards the door. "Think like me, if you must. Only, do not kill Greys." He opened the door to the smithy; stepped out into the steady rain, and whispered, "Trust me", before vanishing into the gloom.


"Elizabeth? What on Earth—why are you all wet?"

She sat down at the head of the breakfast table, pushing back damp strands of hair which clung to her face, and then folded her hands in her lap, looking down at the white tablecloth in resolute elusion, studying the lace embellishment. "I went out for air this morning and was caught in the rain, that's all."

"Well, that was rather unwise. Did you not hear the thunder at dawn?"

Elizabeth looked up; her father sat on the right side of the table, several seats down from her, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves before swallowing a forkful of the food on his plate—some assortment of victuals which Elizabeth did not care to discern.

"You should adhere to the Doctor's orders; at this rate you'll become ill again."

Elizabeth sighed, beleaguered. "Just let it alone, Father."

"Elizabeth, I am merely trying to…Elizabeth?" He stopped to study her face. "Why, what's the matter, child?"

She looked down again, not wishing him to discern the wetness of her eyes, the agitation in her countenance. "Nothing." She looked round the room, as if searching for something, and rubbed her arms. "Is there any tea?"

"Charlotte will bring some presently," the Governor answered, concern in his tone, and the serving maid, having heard Elizabeth's request, entered the room with a tray bearing a pot of the beverage surrounded by cups and scones. She moved to pour the tea and present a cup to the lady, but the Governor asked her to refrain from doing so; instead to leave the refreshments on the table. Charlotte bowed, taking her leave.

Elizabeth reached for a teacup, but her hand shook and faltered, lying limp upon the table. The Governor covered that hand, cool and pale, with his own.

"My dear."

She looked up. His voice was endearing, his tone the same as it had been when she was child, when he was patient and willing to listen to her troubles or fantasies, or whatever else was on her mind.

"What's bothering you?"

She looked at him full in the eyes. "Do you ever have the feeling, when you're speaking to someone, that it's the last time? The last time you'll speak to them, the last time you'll see them again?" Her voice was tense, quiet.

The Governor gazed at her in silence for a moment, before shaking his head. "If I didn't know any better, I would think that you were weighing life and death in the palm of your hand."

Elizabeth's heart quickened. How much could she tell him? "I…"

"As a matter of fact…" the Governor started, and Elizabeth silenced her potential words. "I have had that feeling. That feeling of…loss." A veil of sadness passed over his face. "I was with your mother, the day after your birth. We were happy, looking forward to our lives, but she very weak. She took my hand, and drew me close. 'I love her,' she said. 'I christen her Elizabeth. She will be a good girl. She will find her way in the world and be all that I could not. She will be happy.' I replied, 'As you are happy now?' She said, 'No, she will possess unparalleled happiness, though obstacles will stand in her way.' I did not take into account the future manifestation of her words. A few hours, perhaps less, and she was gone."

He paused, and Elizabeth grasped his hand, shocked and pained, never having heard this poignant depiction of her mother in all her years. "The marriage was arranged, it is true; we were not lovers. Still, I was very fond of Elinor. Perhaps I had even grown to love her in our brief time together." He released a heavy sigh. "It seems…we always lose those who mean the most to us."

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes. "Father, there is something I must tell you."

"Governor Swann." The butler knocked on the door.

He regarded his daughter apologetically. "Yes, Charles?"

"An Admiral Greys is here, sir."

The Governor rose, tossing his napkin on the table, and frowned. "Show him out; I do not wish to see him."

"He requests the audience of Mrs. Turner, sir."

"No! I refuse it, I—"

Elizabeth placed a hand on his arm. "I will see him, Father."

He looked at her in surprise. "You are certain?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Then…then I will not stop you." He resumed his seat in his chair, and drew a hand over his face, as if in defeat.

A chord struck her heart. "Oh, Father," she murmured, and pressed her lips to his temple before exiting the room. Governor Swann saw the bottom of her skirt, mauve-blue, before she vanished, and her presence was lost to him.


"Mrs. Turner," the Admiral greeted with a smile, his blue eyes gleaming as he extended a hand to her.

Elizabeth stood before him and surveyed him with a cold and arched eye. "What do you want?"

He cocked his head, stepping closer to her. "Take my arm like a good girl; we must observe pleasantries."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed, her lips pursed, and she strode past him in a flurry of her skirts and opened the front door. The rain had grown heavy. The accompanying wind was fierce, giving it a characteristic slant as it poured down, causing some rainwater to spill unto the marble floors through the open doorway.

She glared at him, the door handle slick and cold as she grasped it. Her damp hair fluttered loose before her eyes.

He approached, the heels of his shoes scraping like nails on glass upon the floor. "You are terribly rude, I must say," he remarked, his eyes roving over her in a manner unbecoming to a gentleman. "I may have to shorten your time for that."

Elizabeth resisted the urge to strike him. "You wouldn't dare."

He laughed, out of place. "No, no. I am a man of my word. In fact, I am feeling lenient. I give you until the stroke of midnight. If the deal is not agreed to by then…" He made a motion with his hand. Elizabeth turned a shade paler. He stepped out into the downpour. "It's been a pleasure, as usual, Elizabeth. Give my regards to your husband, hmm?"

She shut the door before she did something rash, something she would regret. Without a thought, she ascended the stairs and entered her bedroom. She rummaged through a drawer of her dresser, her hands passing over negligees of lace and silk and satin, until her fingers touched an object hard and cold.

She extracted the pistol; hid it within the folds of her skirt. She then garmented herself with her thick traveling cloak, found the makeshift rope of twisted sheets in her closet. She tossed the rope from the window; the bottom brushed the grass; she made her way out of the mansion. As her feet touched the ground, she knew what she must do.