I should probably just say this is a rough sequel to my other fic, the
Making of Jack Sparrow, which isn't finished, which simply means that these
characters will follow the same history and way of thinking that they did
in my other story. It will probably have no relevance to the plot in any
way; just some of the details might be similar. I.e. if Jack's talking
about his past or something.
Thank you to all my reviewers.
Don't sue, I don't own anything.
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Elizabeth sat, the knitting needles her father had given her to 'keep her occupied' idle in her lap. She knew she should go out a get the red thread, and start knitting again, as she had during the first few months of her marriage to Will. She knew she should think about what to make for dinner for Will when he came back in a few hours, hot and sweaty from the blacksmith.
She watched the blue waters of the Caribbean listlessly, ignoring the bustle of the maid, and the knock at the door when the postman came. She slipped of her wedding ring, placing it in the palm of her hand.
She tried to feel the same excitement, the same wonder about the small gold band Will had bought her as she did about the medallion she'd stolen of him. The medallion that had caused so much trouble, broken her free of the life, as she knew it.
She tried not to think about pirates, and travelling to exotic countries, and clothes that didn't pull. She tried not to think about the baby, the baby she'd dreamt about, beautiful and sweet, gurgling and jabbering in baby talk, his fat hands always reaching out for her frail figure. She tried not to remember coming into the nursery, the wind from the sea blowing the pale blue curtains of the second story room, and seeing him so still. His eyes glazed over, his chubby arms curled up on his chest.
It had reminded her of a spider. How when they die, their long scary legs shudder and shake, and then are drawn up close to the body as death takes them.
"Is this it?" Elizabeth said, her girlish face livid with disappointment. She wanted Will, wanted him so bad. Wanted to lose herself in his strong arms again, to have his looks of devotion through lowered eyes. She always felt so special, so wonderful when he looked at her. The way he touched her, so lightly, so reverently as though she were the most sacred thing on earth.
But all she could think of was their fight, the previous night.
"Why?" He shouted, keeping his eyes on the polished black kitchen floorboards, trying to keep hold of his rage. She knew she'd been baiting him, knew she was picking a fight, but she couldn't help herself.
"I don't know, Will. I just don't want to go okay?" She started slicing carrots angrily. "I just don't think I can bear another night, sitting with the Commodore and those pompous nobles, talking without really saying anything, where everyone watches that everyone else uses the right bloody fork." She snapped.
She heard will behind her sign. He wrapped his arms around her, taking the knife out of her hand, chopping the carrots neatly, swaying her in his embrace while he did it. Elizabeth closed her eyes, for a second just relishing in the feel of him against her.
"Please come. It's important to my business. No one's going to judging you." He pleaded. Her eyes fogged over. The tears, which were always present at the surface of her eyes spilling over. She knew they would be judging. Calling her a bad mother, a terrible mother who let their infant die. How could she justify herself? She went downstairs for a moment, to heat the milk, and when she came back.
"Fuck you Will." She said harshly, pushing out of his embrace, lifting her skirt so she could run upstairs.
She couldn't explain it to him. Oh, she'd tried, in the first few weeks. And he'd whispered comforting words, saying how they'd have another baby. That these things happened, there was no control over them. He'd brushed her hair, and held her too him, and then gone out to work. Everyone had pitied him.
But she couldn't go out there, with all the stares and the whispers. She'd tried to explain that too, later. Drunken explanations, that Will hadn't understood, and this time, he hadn't tried to.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Elizabeth sat, the knitting needles her father had given her to 'keep her occupied' idle in her lap. She knew she should go out a get the red thread, and start knitting again, as she had during the first few months of her marriage to Will. She knew she should think about what to make for dinner for Will when he came back in a few hours, hot and sweaty from the blacksmith.
She watched the blue waters of the Caribbean listlessly, ignoring the bustle of the maid, and the knock at the door when the postman came. She slipped of her wedding ring, placing it in the palm of her hand.
She tried to feel the same excitement, the same wonder about the small gold band Will had bought her as she did about the medallion she'd stolen of him. The medallion that had caused so much trouble, broken her free of the life, as she knew it.
She tried not to think about pirates, and travelling to exotic countries, and clothes that didn't pull. She tried not to think about the baby, the baby she'd dreamt about, beautiful and sweet, gurgling and jabbering in baby talk, his fat hands always reaching out for her frail figure. She tried not to remember coming into the nursery, the wind from the sea blowing the pale blue curtains of the second story room, and seeing him so still. His eyes glazed over, his chubby arms curled up on his chest.
It had reminded her of a spider. How when they die, their long scary legs shudder and shake, and then are drawn up close to the body as death takes them.
"Is this it?" Elizabeth said, her girlish face livid with disappointment. She wanted Will, wanted him so bad. Wanted to lose herself in his strong arms again, to have his looks of devotion through lowered eyes. She always felt so special, so wonderful when he looked at her. The way he touched her, so lightly, so reverently as though she were the most sacred thing on earth.
But all she could think of was their fight, the previous night.
"Why?" He shouted, keeping his eyes on the polished black kitchen floorboards, trying to keep hold of his rage. She knew she'd been baiting him, knew she was picking a fight, but she couldn't help herself.
"I don't know, Will. I just don't want to go okay?" She started slicing carrots angrily. "I just don't think I can bear another night, sitting with the Commodore and those pompous nobles, talking without really saying anything, where everyone watches that everyone else uses the right bloody fork." She snapped.
She heard will behind her sign. He wrapped his arms around her, taking the knife out of her hand, chopping the carrots neatly, swaying her in his embrace while he did it. Elizabeth closed her eyes, for a second just relishing in the feel of him against her.
"Please come. It's important to my business. No one's going to judging you." He pleaded. Her eyes fogged over. The tears, which were always present at the surface of her eyes spilling over. She knew they would be judging. Calling her a bad mother, a terrible mother who let their infant die. How could she justify herself? She went downstairs for a moment, to heat the milk, and when she came back.
"Fuck you Will." She said harshly, pushing out of his embrace, lifting her skirt so she could run upstairs.
She couldn't explain it to him. Oh, she'd tried, in the first few weeks. And he'd whispered comforting words, saying how they'd have another baby. That these things happened, there was no control over them. He'd brushed her hair, and held her too him, and then gone out to work. Everyone had pitied him.
But she couldn't go out there, with all the stares and the whispers. She'd tried to explain that too, later. Drunken explanations, that Will hadn't understood, and this time, he hadn't tried to.
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