Thank you to all who have taken the time to review this story; I'm honored to have your input. A very special thank you to OneMagician, my very trusted beta. I could not have done this without you.
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For inspiration, Somewhere by Within Temptation
Chapter 18: Departures
Time stood still for Isabelle as the floor beneath her pitched in the rhythm set by the wind battering the boat from above and the ocean convulsing below it. There was a moment in the counter-balance when she questioned whether she was awake or locked in some horrible nightmare. She felt faint and closed her eyes, her breath suspended as her mind caught up with the shock of seeing her mother-in-law emerge from the back of the room unexpectedly. Opening her eyes again, she saw that Cora was indeed on board the boat, standing only a few feet away.
The older woman was shrouded in the darkness, her face illuminated spectrally in the glow of the lantern light, lips curled in a sneer and her eyes giving away the pure animosity she harbored towards her deceased son's wife.
Isabelle thought that she had to be dreaming this; she was caught right in the middle of some sort of terrible nightmare... But the images just wouldn't fade as an eternity of seconds passed in silence.
"I . . . I don't understand," she finally stammered in disbelief.
Turning to Killian, who was stationed rigidly by the door behind her, her heart sank when she looked from one to the other, trying to fathom what possible reason existed for the woman's presence in the inner sanctuary of the man she knew as a friend. His face was strained. Placing a shaky hand on his arm, she leaned in toward him, forcing him to look at her with anguish.
"Killian," she demanded carefully, "why is she here? How do you know her?"
When he failed to answer, Cora sauntered forward, the shadows clinging to her black dress, the lamplight reflecting off of the silk lending it an oily appearance. Seating herself at the plain oak table, she insouciantly began pouring tea into several cups she'd prepared ahead of time.
"It's quite simple, dear," she stated coolly, "Mr. Jones and I are old acquaintances; business acquaintances, actually. He's been on my payroll for some time now, taking care of… well, shall we say, the more thankless tasks involved in running a profitable business." She set a teacup and saucer in the place across from her and gestured for the younger woman to sit down. "Come now, dear, we have many things to discuss."
Isabelle slowly retreated several steps back from Killian as her mind sluggishly digested what she'd been told. Killian was working for Cora? "Why?" she asked him, her voice thin and choked.
The journalist felt sick. He had expected to see the wounded look in the small woman's eyes, but that didn't diminish the sharp pain he felt at betraying her trust. He had never seen her vulnerable before, and knowing he had lured her here made him hate himself. He wanted to make this as painless for her as possible, so he gently directed her to the table. "Let's sit down and talk."
"I don't want to sit down, I want an answer!" she demanded, pulling back from him. "Why didn't you tell me you knew her? What is this about?"
Ashamed, he wished for the thousandth time that he'd not gone through with Cora's plan. To have the woman he loved regard him with that wounded expression at his disloyalty was almost more than he could bear. "It's complicated, love. I . . . I'm so sorry."
Shaking her head, hardly able to grasp what was happening, Isabelle snapped, "Well, uncomplicate it."
He'd never seen her angry before, much less been on the receiving end of her withering glare. When he looked away, unable to bring himself to answer her, Cora intervened.
"He was my back up plan, dear; a very tried and true plan until now. Simply put, I needed you to marry Blanchard, and Mr. Jones here was supposed to steer you homeward, by whatever means necessary."
She leered at Isabelle, her meaning clear, and Isabelle felt bile rise to her throat.
"Killian has always been a gentleman to me," she retorted sharply, "he's been my friend, nothing more."
"Yes, dear, that much is obvious," Cora acknowledged with a brief glare of contempt aimed at Killian. "But I needed that merger with Blanchard. His company would have expanded our interests across the country, doubling our profits in less than two years. I had intended the match for Regina but, for all of her charms, he wouldn't be swayed in her direction; no, all he wanted was a mother for his little girl. After Gerald died, you became the more suitable choice. I had planned to introduce you when your mourning period was over, but you got it in your head to move to this wretched little town.
"I must say, you are even more stubborn than I gave you credit for." She sighed before leveling a look of long-suffering on the younger woman. "Your obstinate perseverance and determination in making your own way after I cut off your funds really surprised me. That's when I brought Mr. Jones in. It was his job to win your affections and then get you to agree to sell out here and return to Boston, where you belong. Of course, once you were there, he'd abandon you and you'd have no choice but to come home and go along with my plan."
Isabelle blanched, completely appalled by Cora's confession. She wheeled on Jones, shaking and breathless. "Your proposal . . . your friendship, all of it was a lie?"
"No!" Firmly looking her in the eye for the first time since the conversation began, he fought to find the right words – or any words at all – to say, that wouldn't make matters even worse, but started to stumble and blunder through all the thoughts that were forming and falling over themselves in his head. "No . . . I mean, it began as a lie, but . . . I didn't mean to, but . . . I do love you, Isabelle, you have to know that."
She stared up at him, incredulous for several moments before anger finally ripped through her. "Love me?" She felt sick. He reached his hand toward her and she shrank back from him, his presence making her feel dirty.
"There now, dear, there's no need to take it personally," Cora interjected, snorting back a laugh. "It's nothing he hasn't done before. Usually, he's quite the charmer." Killian responded with an evil glare, barely stifling the urge to throttle her.
The boat lurched and moaned as the wind buffeted it from outside. Isabelle's thoughts were similarly jolted, as she felt the sudden need to forsake the now fetid room. Dismissing her mother-in-law by turning her back on her, she looked up at Killian, hurt and anger mingling in her eyes.
"I've heard enough; I'm leaving." When he didn't move from in front of the door, she angrily attempted to shove him aside, but he caught her upper arm gently and reluctantly barred her way.
"I'm afraid we can't allow you to do that, Isabelle," Cora's voice quietly caressed from behind her as she struggled against Jones' towering weight.
"Why not?" she cried, and Killian restrained her further by grabbing her wrists until she stopped thrashing, holding her to him.
She half turned when she heard the chair scrape the floor as Cora rose, and Killian's grip on her loosened. She knew he didn't mean to hurt her. He would never hurt her… not physically, any way.
Moving on silent feet, the queen of aguish slowly closed the distance between them until she stood mere inches away from the younger woman, effectively pinning Isabelle between Jones and herself.
"We're going to Boston, dear," she explained reaching out a cold hand to smooth Isabelle's braid, smiling satisfactorily when the girl flinched away.
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Daniel hadn't been happy watching Isabelle walk away from the house. He'd smiled when she'd turned at the gate to blow him a kiss as he'd knelt on the roof with a handful of shingles. Her flirtatious farewell had elevated his mood at bit, and he'd watched the gentle sway of her hips until she'd disappeared around the bend. Their afternoon in the little pavilion still lingered in his thoughts, as did the sweet smell of her sweat on his skin; it brought to mind the things she'd whispered to him, and the sound of her voice when she'd come apart echoed in his ears.
It made him uneasy and anxious to think that she was on her way to Jones now, even if it was only to say goodbye. He wanted that blaggard gone from her life, and he couldn't wait to know him safely – or otherwise – steering his tub out of the harbor bay. Perhaps there was such a thing as justice; God might have mercy on them yet, and the man would sink his barge somewhere way out at sea. They'd be free of him, and he'd never have to lay eyes on him again. He was sure Isabelle would get over it.
He tugged against the hammer to remove the lone nail of a loose and torn shingle, pulling at the tarry base still stuck to the roof. Once the offending material was out of his way, he worked a new shingle into the bare spot and nailed it in place. One after the other, he replenished the worn, shingles, practically noting that the entire roof would need to be replaced in a couple of years. As he worked at a steady pace, the wind played havoc with the shingles he'd laid out to use, whipping at them until they flapped wildly in his hands, or scooting them across the flat plane of the roof, all the while having no effect on him whatsoever. He grinned at how ridiculous he must look as he repaired the leaky places. Seeing just how many repairs that entailed made him regret the degree of disrepair the house had fallen into during his years of solitude. Of course, it had previously been merely a gaping husk haunted by a discarded old ghost; now, it was a home with a family, and as such, deserved the care and respect of a proper shelter.
A family; and at this stage of his . . . well, existence. He shook his head in wonder as he gathered his tools and climbed down the ladder. He'd had a family before and lost it. His son across the sea would one day have a family of his own. Likely as not, Daniel would probably never see him again, and the fact that he'd managed to make his peace with him, however indirectly, was no small feat. In the end, Bae had known that his father had loved him, and that was all he'd ever worked for both in life and in death. Now, he had Isabelle. He had no business to distract him, didn't even miss it, really. His little wife and Lucy and Martha were his to love and protect and teach and work beside, and he would gladly pour himself into making them secure and happy. Their welfare was his priority and his domain, and he would do everything that was demanded of him to take care of them.
Smiling at the thought, he envisioned a long and happy future stretched out before them. He'd help Isabelle with her writing; perhaps accompany her on her journeys. He'd watch Lucy grow up, go off to university, marry and raise children of her own. He and Isabelle would take strolls along the long beach in front of their home, weather the ups and downs of a life filled with love and companionship. He'd see her grow old, her face soften with time and her locks of chestnut gradually turn silver; her smooth hands wither into the expression a lifetime of care and work and love, and he knew that she'd be as beautiful at eighty as she was today. He'd be with her to the end of her journey, and when her bright eyes closed in final slumber, he'd welcome her to his side.
That thought unsettled him a bit, and he took a moment to look up the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of her returning home, but there was no sign of her yet. He knew that she'd love the walk home in the growing tempest, and that her quick little steps would keep pace with the wildness unleashing itself around her. It had taken the former sea captain nearly three quarters of an hour to complete his task, and in that time, the skies had darkened considerably, the sun obscured by the arrival of the storm. After putting the hammer, nails and extra shingles in their places and securing the shed door, he materialized on the balcony of the bedroom he shared with Isabelle. All was black seaward, masking the face of the squall that was finally upon them. Sporadic flashes of lightening randomly laced the sky, momentarily reflecting off of the froth-flecked crests of waves surging angrily upward. The wind coming from the east had reached a fevered pitch with gusts strong enough to bow the treetops, its efforts making the house around him groan.
Turning his attentions to the road in front of the house, he looked for his wife again. Any moment, he expected to see her scurrying up the path, her blue skirts whipping around her petite frame, her hat flopping uselessly in her hand as her hair freely billowed about her in the wind. It would be just like her to dawdle about, taking too long to wish that scoundrel, Jones, farewell; maybe stop to admire the way the canopy blew one direction while the grasses blew the opposite way. Don't worry, he told himself; me Belle is fearless, but she's smart, that one, and will be here anon.
The clock from the library tower sounded the hour over the din about him. Isabelle had been gone for over an hour, now.
A light drizzle began to dampen the balcony around him, and his stomach clenched coldly with it. He heard a hesitant rapping on the bedroom door behind him, and he turned as Martha entered the room.
"Pardon me, Captain," she started, coming up behind him and stopping at the balcony doors. "Can you see her?
Fixing his eyes back to the roadway, he shook his head. "No, not a sign of her yet."
"Well, she's always been one to take her time." She said it nonchalantly, but Daniel could hear the tension under her voice. It served to trouble him further as it matched his own sentiments.
"Aye," he agreed, "but she'll be on her way home by now."
Martha leaned toward the door, trying to peer around him to glimpse the roadway for herself. The steady wind chilled her and she pulled her shawl about her more securely. Catching his eye she offered, "I'm sure she will be. The rain is coming up now, though, and I don't trust that a stray branch or two might not block the road a bit."
Seeing that the housekeeper's concern was growing as alarmed as his own, he nodded grimly. "Why don' I go up the way a piece and see if I can hurry her along?"
Relief washed over Martha's features. "That's a good idea, Captain. I'll have some towels waiting by the door for her." Satisfied that Daniel would see her young miss safely home, she made her way back to the door admonished him, "and mind you, don't either of you leave any puddles on my floor when you come in." Looking back she saw that Daniel had already vanished.
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Isabelle turned her back on Cora and stared angrily up at Killian. "I am not going to Boston. Get out of my way," she demanded fiercely.
He slowly shook his head, bracing himself firmly, his anguished eyes refusing her and his body resolutely blocking the doorway. "I'm afraid not, love," he told her, his voice soft and caressing, and Isabelle shrank back from him.
"Killian, please don't do this," she begged.
He tenderly, pleadingly reached for her hand and was somewhat surprised when she took it, her face tight as she tried to work out his reasons for selling her out. The hard look he gave his employer signaled Cora to retreat a little and he gently led Isabelle back to the table, seated her and then hunched down beside her so that he had to look up at her. He kept his voice low and calm, half expecting her to rail against him again, and his heart wrenched at the way she was fighting back the tears that were pooling in her eyes. "We are going to Boston to get you help."
"Help?" Confused, she searched his face for a clue as to what he was talking about. "Help for what?"
Impulsively, he brought her hand to his lips and lightly kissed it, then explained hesitantly, "you aren't well, love."
"What?"
He hesitated, gauging how best to address this without upsetting her further, and then spoke in quiet, soothing tones, making her feel like an irrational child that must be brought to reason. She listened all the same, astonished and wondering where this was coming from.
"Cora first told me about it some time ago," he admitted. "She said that you'd suffered a breakdown, had begun to see people who weren't there, heard voices." He clenched her hand more forcefully when she started to object, and continued, his voice rising a bit.
"I didn't want to believe it at first," he told her, ignoring Cora's glare burning into the back of his head as though she wasn't there at all. He could afford to. Isabelle deserved an explanation, and he didn't care what the evil witch thought of him now. "I wanted to believe that she was just angry that you were going against her plans."
Isabelle snorted, looking up at the ceiling. She should have known. This wasn't Killian talking. This wasn't him at all, and she hated Cora more than ever; deeply, completely, exhaustively hated her.
There was more, however, and she began to understand the extent of the damage done, the damage she'd done to herself without Cora even having to raise one finger to help, when he conveyed the rest of it.
"But, you see, I've been watching you over the last few months and . . . and . . . I've seen you talking to someone who wasn't there." Isabelle wanted to withdraw her hand, but he wouldn't let her. "Isabelle, don't pull away!" he persisted, growing frantic, "I'm sorry, I truly am, but you need to see a doctor, a specialist, someone who has experience dealing with these kinds of situations."
Isabelle stared at him, her breath frozen in her lungs. She had to set this right. Oh why hadn't she confided in him before it had come to this? She could have made him see… "Killian, you couldn't be more wrong!"
"Isabelle, at your house yesterday," he began painfully, "on the porch . . . you were talking to the air, having a conversation; and on the road to town . . ."
"You don't understand," she insisted vehemently, "please let me explain."
Killian drew a patient breath, waiting for her to give him an answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. She looked vulnerable as she gazed back at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. He knew they were standing at a crossroad, at a place where their relationship would be forever altered and he braced himself for the worst. Now, she was looking at him with that gentle buffering that always preceded unwelcome news and he wasn't absolutely convinced that he could deal with any more.
"I was speaking to my husband."
The world stopped.
Killian covered his eyes with his hands and took a ragged breath, the only other sound the storm buffeting the boat from outside, the room rocking with a turbulence that was as much about his emotions within as the typhoon without. Concerned, Isabelle gently touched his arm, only to have him shrug it off. He rose and took a few steps back, running his hands through his hair before clasping them behind his head. Standing still for a few moments, as still as the movement of the turbulent sea around them would allow, he tried to let the kiltering of his mind settle in one place.
When he turned to face her, he looked ready to cry. "Isabelle," he said weakly, cautiously, "your husband is dead; you have. no. husband."
"Killian, I . . ."
"I heard you in the parlor," he plowed on emotionally. "The window was open when you went inside, and I heard you talking to someone, only . . . there was no one with you." She started to interrupt, but he wouldn't let her.
"You've been acting . . . strangely . . . ever since you lost the oil shares, since you started writing your book. I know that you've been under a great deal of pressure to find a way to support yourself, to get your book published."
In truth, he blamed himself for that as he'd tried to get Hopper to turn her down. He felt the weight of guilt for damaging this woman, and he wished he could undo what he'd done. Returning to her side, he knelt back down in front of her, his eyes pleading.
"You need to rest, love." Risking a glance at his employer, he marked the loathsome smirk on her face and decided to throw all caution to the wind. He had nothing left to lose, and neither did Isabelle. "You don't have to go to Boston. Say the word, and I'll take us to Florida instead. Please, let me take care of you for a while."
She had seen his confusion over her actions the day before, but never had she expected this kind of reaction. His earnest desire to help her touched her deeply, but she needed to rectify the situation before it went too much farther. "Killian," Isabelle said desperately, "it's a bit difficult to explain so, please, hear me out." He didn't answer, seemed to be holding his breath as he waited to hear what she'd say. She flicked her eyes toward Cora, noting the smug satisfaction on her sharp features. Taking a deep breath, she turned her attention back to Jones, cerulean eyes centered on ice blue. "When I said I was speaking to my husband, I didn't mean Gerald; I was speaking to Daniel, my current husband."
"Daniel?" he asked with a frustrated huff, "as in Daniel Gold? The man you wrote about?"
"Yes," she answered without hesitation.
He continued to simply stare at her, afraid to say anything lest he upset her.
She told him how she'd discovered that Daniel's spirit still occupied her house after she'd purchased it, and how, over time, they'd become friends. They'd gotten to know one another during the course of writing his biography, and they'd married themselves under the starlight not too many weeks ago. She told him that Lucy and Martha adored the captain and her family was complete. She was so animated in her narrative, her eyes glowing warmly and her cheeks flushed as she spoke of her ghost. It was evident that she honestly believed him to be real and that Lucy and Miss Potts, for reasons that were beyond him, were encouraging her to continue to believe in him.
He realized she'd finished speaking and was waiting expectantly for him to respond, and he had no idea what he was supposed to say. There was so much sincerity in her eyes, in the way she held herself.
"You believe me, don't you?" she asked him, and his breath caught.
He looked at Cora standing in the shadows by the door, a predatory smile on her face.
Listening to Isabelle try to convince him that her captain was real was the most painful thing he'd ever experienced. He'd never loved any woman before, and maybe he deserved having his love rejected. He'd used women, played them for money or favors or sex, but none of them had ever inspired his loyalty or the sense of protectiveness he felt for this tiny widow. That her mind was overwrought, her thoughts disturbed only endeared her to him more. He wanted to help her, to protect her from her vicious mother-in-law, to find a way to make her better. He would help her to get better.
Tenderly, he brought her hand to his lips and lightly kissed her knuckles. "It's going to be alright, love," he promised softly. "Please, trust me." Her eyes hardening, she pulled her hand from his and started to rise, only to have him press her shoulders resolutely against the back of the chair. Steeling himself against the pain of her rejection, he slowly rose and silently begged her forgiveness with sorrowful eyes.
Panicked, Isabelle realized they were intent on taking her with them: away from Lucy and Daniel. She bolted from the chair, ran to the door and tugged it open. Jones had anticipated her, however, and reaching it only a second behind her, he threw his weight against it, slamming it shut and cutting her off from freedom. Rounding her shoulders back, she slapped his face with all of the force she could muster, his head snapping back as her hand connected solidly with his left cheek. With a desperate cry, she flung herself at him once again, trying to force him away from the door.
He met her efforts by grabbing her hands less carefully than he had last time, pinning them above her head against the wall and bracing his body against hers to control her actions. "Calm down, Isabelle!" he commanded harshly. He held her fast as she struggled against him for a few moments, giving her time to realize how futile her resistance was.
She subsided with a choked sob, looking up at him defiantly, tears threatening but not spilling from her beautiful eyes. "Please, Killian," she whispered, "please let me go home."
Slowly, he relaxed his grip on her wrists, his determination waning as his heart broke for her.
"Enough of this, Mr. Jones." Cora emerged from the shadows, her voice crushing any thoughts he may have had of defying her. "I suggest you go topside and get us moving; we've a long way to go and the storm is getting worse." Indeed, the boat was already bucking and moaning under the onslaught of wind and rain.
Having been dismissed, Jones cast one last apologetic glance toward Isabelle and released her. Leaving her in Cora's care, he turned on his heel and fled the room.
Neither woman moved, both standing fixed where they were, one in stunned silence and the other sneering triumphantly.
Refusing to be intimidated, Isabelle raised her chin defiantly and said, "You'll never get away with this."
Cora stalked toward her slowly then, and leaning in toward the smaller woman still backed against the wall, she kissed her cheek, making Isabelle squirm with disgust. "That's just it, my dear; I already have."
A vicious smile played on Cora's lips. She had stacked the deck against her son's widow, had called in her favors and laid all of her cards on the table. She had already won, and now it was down to the gloating. Turning her back on her former daughter-in-law, she glided slowly to the table, the crisp rustling of her stiff, black skirt heard even over the din of the gale assaulting the boat. Her shadow engulfed the girl as she passed between her and the lantern to take her place at the head of the table. Seating herself in the captain's chair, she leaned forward and lifted the teapot, pleased to see that it was still hot. After months of endless frustration, order had finally been restored to her domain, and all of the pieces were now in place for the final play.
The shriek of the wind and creaking of the timbers were all that could be heard as she unconcernedly poured each of them another cup of tea, tendrils of steam ghosting over the cups, evaporating in the cold, stale air around them. Slowly she sipped from her own cup, looking over the rim and savoring the impotent glare of the wretched girl before her.
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It was dark as pitch on the roadway, trees flailing about as loose limbs and fragile leaves gave way to the winds battering them. The rain had started in earnest, and though it offered no deterrence to Daniel, it did concern him that Isabelle was out in it, alone and defenseless against the onslaught of the storm. For all of the advantages his ethereal body gave him, neither his hearing nor his eyesight were better than any mortal man, so he scanned the roadway carefully for his wife, afraid to miss her in the surrounding gloom of nightfall.
He had thought he'd meet Isabelle just before their house, her clothes wet and beguilingly soaked through in the rain. When she wasn't just beyond the trees hiding the dirt road leading to their own little lane, he continued walking toward town. He was angry that she'd insisted on meeting Jones even when the bad weather had come inland much sooner than they'd expected, and now she was late coming home. No doubt, she'd been delayed by turning down yet another invitation to go down the coast with the insufferable blaggard. Well, the next time Jones showed his smarmy face, Daniel would make it clear that his wife's place was at his side, and that further inflictions of the journalist's attentions were unwanted.
Lightening illuminated the underbelly of the clouds above, flashing a low light over the lonely roadway. All was darkness and rain and black forest and mud, and still no Belle. He had just rounded the copse of woodland that opened up to the dairy farm marking half of the journey to town. The ground was past absorbing the torrential rain and the ditches began filling up. Thick mire began sucking at his boots, and wasn't this a bloody marvelous time to find out that he was no lighter on his feet in this state either. Cursing beneath his breath, he moved to the middle of the road, finding that navigating though the center was easier than slogging along the disintegrating sides.
Trudging on in the muck and relentless downpour, he worried that he'd somehow missed crossing paths with Belle. He felt a bit lightheaded and an edgy feeling began to gnaw at him. Shaking it off, he focused on the sodden road before him, knowing the upcoming bend would open on the town and the harbor where she'd agreed to meet Jones. He'd taken only half a dozen steps when he stopped short, the nauseating sensation of fading quaking in his limbs. It was as if he'd stepped over a perimeter, pulling him away from his center. It was the same numbness he'd experienced before when he'd strayed too far from his boundaries, only to materialize at some later time within the confines of the house.
Another bolt of lightening ripped through the clouds, a brilliant flare accompanied by an angry clap of thunder. At that moment, pain gripped Daniel's chest and he fell headlong into the slick sludge. He writhed in agony on the ground for a few seconds before the throbbing sting subsided to a tolerable level, a sense of dread remaining in its wake. Grunting, he pushed himself up on his hands and knees then shakily rose to his feet. Running a hand through his hair, he concentrated for a moment, willing his spirit to find whatever cord tied him to Isabelle, something solid to connect him to her. When he couldn't sense her in any way, he steeled himself, pushing back at the restraints tugging him away from the road, and began running the last few hundred feet around the curve and into the outskirts of Storybrooke.
He looked up the street and saw that the town was mostly blacked out, practically hidden in the deluge. Businesses were closed; a majority of the windows shuttered or boarded up. A handful of scattered homes had braved the wretched squall without taking such precautions, and from them a few panes illuminated the cityscape enough for him to get his bearings. Plunging straight up Moncton Avenue, his head buzzing incessantly, he slid precariously along the slippery street, covering the distance to the harbor. He clamored up the boardwalk and onto the wharf, anxiously reading the names on the tethered crafts, looking desperately for a private boat secured to the moorings, one with some light displayed as a sign that the idiot captain was on board in the tempest assaulting the coast.
Frantically moving from one boat to another in the driving rain, he paused when he reached an empty berth sandwiched between two fishing boats. There, he sensed Isabelle's unmistakable presence, as if the perfume of her essence lingered there.
She had been here… but now she was gone.
Dread gripped him when he realized that Jones had taken her, and she was alone, at sea, in the fury of a maelstrom with a man who wanted her for himself. How could he have been so stupid? Why had he let her come out here on her own? This was his doing; he'd known not to trust Jones, but he'd let Belle's trust of that blaggard cloud his better judgment. He should have stopped her, or at least gone with her. He should been there…
"Belle!" he screamed into the raging torrent, but his voice was all but drowned out by the angry waves and wind and thunder. Dropping to his knees, he began to feel himself melt away.
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The shocked disbelief that had immobilized Isabelle for the past half hour retreated as fury and fear fought to master her. Killian had left several minutes before, time enough to get the boat under way and pull out from the harbor. Gone was the reassuring sound of the boat thudding against the moorings of the dock, and the jostling of the choppy waves near the shoreline had given way to the gut wrenching swelling and dipping of deep water, feeding the terror already taking root in her. The thought that he would undertake a voyage to Boston during a storm either meant he was being paid very handsomely, or he truly thought she was disturbed and needed immediate help. But why risk such a voyage now when she'd told him she'd be in Boston in two weeks, when he could drop his ruse of friendship in a place closer to his goal: closer to Cora's goal?
She'd kept her eyes trained on her mother-in-law since Killian had left. Garbed in black silk and diamond earrings, the woman was seated regally at a rustic table, in a pitching room in the belly of a boat, sipping tea like a queen at court. She could sense the familiar hostility beneath the benevolent mask Cora wore, and she had no doubt that Mrs. Mills was the reason for her abduction and that the timing was to her specifications. That she had something to gain from this little venture she had no doubt, but what that could possibly be eluded her.
Without looking up, Cora ordered haughtily, "Do sit down, Isabelle; your tea is getting cold."
When several moments passed without the younger woman's compliance, she looked up into her captive's wary eyes and waved her over to the seat next to her with a sly smile. "Come now, dear, I'm sure you have questions."
She waited as Isabelle cautiously walked toward the table and, ignoring the offered setting, took the chair at the opposite end of the table, furthest away from her. Cora was pleased, smelling the trepidation deliciously rolling off of her former daughter-in-law: this was her favorite part of the game.
"Well, dear, what would you like to know first?" she mocked.
Isabelle was shaking, whether from anger or terror she didn't know; they seemed indistinguishable at this point. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her feelings down. Every passing minute took her further from home, and when they made it to Boston, she had no way of knowing when she'd be able to get word back to her little family about where she was and what had happened to her. She needed a way out, a way to get topside to talk to Killian. He would listen to her if he didn't have Cora in his ear. She was still sure she could convince him to turn around and return to Storybrooke before it was too late. Cora wanted something from her, but she had no idea what that might be, so no bargaining chip came to mind. If she knew what her mother-in-law wanted, she might be able to offer her something to make her change her mind… or see the absurdity of what she was doing.
Her voice was low when she finally thought she could speak without trembling. "Why are you doing this?"
"That's a very good question," Cora answered mockingly. "Because you're troubled, dear; vulnerable, overwrought . . . insane."
"You know that's not true," Isabelle responded. "Daniel told me you spoke with him. You know what he is and you know that he's real."
Cora raised her cup to her lips, slowly draining it of the last drops of her tea. She set it down daintily, drawing out the moment. "That's true," she admitted. "We had quite a lovely little chat at your gate. He had maliciously sent my driver away so he could threaten me."
"He warned you to leave us alone. We are no longer a part of your plots. I told you that myself when you came to barter me to a business associate like some commodity you had to trade."
"That's exactly what you were: a commodity to be traded. That's all you ever were." Rising from her seat, she slowly began pacing the floor in the confined room. "Do you really think Gerald would have been interested in a bookish little girl barely out of school? No, dear. We needed to expand our business overseas, so I check around and found your father's rather lucrative little company. It wasn't as expansive as I'd have wished, but then it did have a good network of ports established and a less doting father would have concentrated on his holdings enough to recognize a takeover." Cora shook her head, laughing. "A bit of flirting and a gold ring: it didn't take very much effort to acquire your pretty little hand, nor to distract Maurice with the prospect of being a grandfather. All in all, I'd say your father's life's work came rather cheaply."
Isabelle's face flushed with humiliation at being reminded of her naivety concerning Gerald's courtship of her, and of how easily she'd been won, but the woman would have to do better than this revelation to hurt her; although being taunted about her relationship still had the power to anger her, Isabelle had recognized the truth about her marriage to Gerald long ago.
"So, you got what you wanted from my family, and there's nothing left for you to take," she said calmly. "Just tell me what you want from me now."
"I want nothing from you," Cora scoffed. "What I did want is no longer possible. Blanchard married some other simpering young thing to bring his precious daughter up, and her family now shares his holdings."
Incredulous, Isabelle gaped at her. "So, this is about revenge?"
"Of course not, dear," Cora chortled amusedly, "that would be petty."
Confused, her brow furrowed, Isabelle wondered briefly what she had missed. "Then why try to have me committed?"
Cora stopped pacing and turned to face the younger woman, offering her a smug smile. "You aren't going to be committed, Isabelle; you aren't even going to Boston."
"But, Killian said that– "
"What Mr. Jones thinks is what I want him to think," Cora interrupted, fixing Isabelle with a malicious glare. "I needed to get you away from that house, away from your… your ghost." Disdain marked her face distinctly. "I have plans and I don't need – your husband – interfering."
"Whatever you're planning won't work; Daniel will come for me once he knows I'm missing."
Cora laughed, amused at the girls' misplaced faith in her flimsy self-appointed guardian. "Really, Isabelle? How do you think I've succeeded all of these years, gotten everything I've ever wanted? I know people, and I know how to exploit their weaknesses. Your captain is at home because you are his weakness, and he is miles and miles away from where you're going because he was stupid enough to presume that you're capable of handling yourself."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Oh, that is everything. What people choose to believe is everything. And... I know a thing or two about ghosts," she smiled enigmatically. "After all, I've created enough of them."
The blood in Isabelle's veins turned to ice, dread seizing her at her mother-in-law's confession. "What do you mean?"
Nonchalantly skulking forward, she answered slowly, "I've learned by experience, child. A few well-timed demises kept wills or contracts from being altered, allowed for advances in position. Of course, I made sure these things never occurred near me, so the dearly departed had nothing to hold them to me." Stopping in front of her daughter-in-law, she attempted to caress the young woman's cheek, a smug satisfaction settling over her when Isabelle flinched away from her touch.
"My God!" Isabelle gasped. "You've murdered people?"
"I prefer to think of it as making sound business decisions: small sacrifices to steer things in the right direction." Cora laughed as Isabelle blanched, her small hands clutching at her middle and her eyes wide with horror.
Clucking her tongue, drawing power from the girl's fear as well as the knowledge of her successes, she taunted, "Your captain won't be able to help you, dear, I've seen to that."
Cora stood over the younger woman, enjoying the horror radiating off of her. She found the small quaver in her voice and the shallow breaths Isabelle took as her heart raced intoxicating and knew that this – the seconds before snapping her jaws shut on her quivering prey – was the only reason she was telling her anything. She'd never been able to corner one of her victims before, always manipulating things from a safe distance. This revelry in her victory, the act of watching this wretched girl grovel in fear as she began to realize what was going to happen to her was like a narcotic. Leaning over Isabelle, she inhaled the scent of her terror before placing a maternal kiss upon her clammy brow. She licked her lips, finding the taste of terror invigorating
Isabelle recoiled, a chill coursing through her. The continuous movement of the room, the shriek of the wind buffeting the boat all around them and Cora's boast of murder pressed in on her, making her feel faint. She'd always known her mother-in-law was ruthless, but that she was capable of murder – again and again – was a new and terrifying revelation. New realizations began forming in her mind, and connections she'd never have assumed to make suddenly fell into place. She thought of Gerald, and her stomach churned as she asked herself if his death might also have been a 'sacrifice' for Cora. The fact that she was confessing to her now could only mean she didn't expect her to be in any position to divulge that information in the future.
Pushing down the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, she demanded, "If I'm of no further use to you, why do this?"
Cora's skirts swayed around as she turned her back on her, casually making her way the other end of the room. "You're right, dear, you're of no use to me; but, that doesn't mean you don't have something I need."
Upon reaching a trunk set against the far wall, she opened the lid and retrieved a long, rectangular metal box, the kind found in a safe-deposit box, and a pair of immaculate, white gloves.
"You ruined the efforts of three years' planning with Blanchard, and it's quite obvious you have no intentions of furthering our family's interests; but I'm a patient woman, Isabelle," she stated brusquely, returning to the table. "I can wait for a better time and a better – commodity – to seize any future opportunities. In short, my dear – I will wait for Lucy."
Isabelle shot up, overturning her chair as Cora serenely donned the gloves. Speaking between clenched teeth, she threatened, "You stay away from Lucy."
"Oh, Isabelle," Cora admonished without looking up, fitting the fingers on snugly, "you don't think I'd harm my own granddaughter, do you? No, dear, I intend to help her. All she needs is for her mother to stop standing in the way."
"What are you saying?"
"It's quite simple, really." Reaching inside the box, she withdrew a small pistol and had cocked the hammer and pointed it at Isabelle in one move. "You and your lover, Mr. Jones had a nasty little spat on his boat and, in the heat of passion," she smiled maniacally, "he shot you."
Stunned, Isabelle retracted a few steps back. "You're insane!"
The armed woman shook her head, advancing a step forward; stalking her as she slowly retreated, her hand steady and unwavering. "Don't be absurd. Lucy will go to the finest schools, grow up to her greatest potential. When the time comes, I'll find the perfect husband for her. She'll secure the family for generations to come. You've always been a good mother, Isabelle. I'm sure you want what's best for your daughter."
"You'd kill me so you can take Lucy?"
"Come now, dear, it isn't personal," she responded with a benign smile, "it's just good business."
Without warning, the boat tilted starboard, pitching the two women toward the table. Startled, Cora squeezed the trigger, her aim thrown off as she fell to the right against the table. The crack of the pistol catapulted Isabelle into action. Not wasting another moment, she made a break for the door, her momentum slowed by momentary incline of the floor. She reached it, turning the doorknob at the same time she heard an enraged screech from Cora and the distinct sound of the hammer being cocked again. She pulled the door open, the wailing storm suddenly screaming into the room from topside as she threw herself onto the stairs and climbed upward into the melee.
She was near the top, the cold pellets of rain stinging her face, when she felt the bullet burn into her right shoulder, felling her a few steps after she hauled herself onto the chaotic deck of the Pirate's Heart.