Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott.

Historical note: I recognized the many inaccuracies, please forgive them. They were necessary for the sake of the plotline.

Chance the Winds of Fortune

Chapter 4

"Did ya find 'im?"

Gareth strode across the gently swaying deck of the Lady of the Winds. "Hell no, I didn't find him." He stopped and faced his first mate. The grim set of his jaw spoke more eloquently than his words.

"What did Smith say?" Oliver had followed the captain below to his cabin, damn near trotting to keep up with the younger man's long strides. He watched Gareth begin to remove his jacket.

"He hadn't seen him."

"But the letter . . ."

"Dammit, Oliver, you think I don't know what the letter says?" Gareth dropped onto the sturdy wooden chair beside his desk. "'I'll contact Henry Smith upon my arrival in Port Royal and apprise him of my plans.' Those were Nat's exact words, but he didn't do it."

Oliver rubbed his beard. "It ain't like Nathaniel not to do what he says."

The bark of laughter from Gareth was as sudden as it was mirthless. "None of this is like Nat."

Oliver sank onto the chair opposite the desk and nodded his head. "You've got the right of it there, Cap'n." An instant later he leveled his eyes at the younger man. "I guess ya considered that the Starfish ain't arrived yet?"

"I can grasp at straws as well as you, old friend. After I left Henry I spent the rest of the day at the Admiralty." Gareth paused. "The Starfish arrived April 12."

Oliver sank further into his chair. "Nearly a month ago."

"Aye."

Nearly a month. Nat had been in Port Royal, Kingston for nearly a month, and he hadn't contacted Henry Smith. Gareth thought again of his visit that morning with Slade Trading Company's solicitor.

It hadn't taken Gareth long to realize that, though Henry knew about some of the problems Slade Trading Company was having (Nat had written asking for his assitence), he did not know about George Slade's death nor had he seen Nat.

"What ya gonna do now?" Oliver's voice brought Gareth back to the present.

Gareth answered his first mate's query with one of his own. "Do you recall the name Charles Garland?"

Oliver hesitated. "Ya took his sugar to Baltimore."

"You've a good memory, Oliver." Gareth rose and opened the sea chest at the foot of his bunk, noticing for the first time that someone had put his cabin to rights. It certainly hadn't been the one responsible for creating the havoc in the first place, for when he had returned to his cabin yesterday morning she'd been gone, but the mess had remained. Well, that was of no consequence now.

Oliver was staring at him, no doubt wondering why he had brought up Garland. "He owns a sugar plantation on the Hope River. Henry Smith says his estate manager is selling wheat flour, and rather a lot of it, too."

"Charles Garland's manager?"

"Yes."

"But why would he be sellin' flour?" Oliver asked, rubbing his chin again.

"That's exactly what I'd like to know." Flour was one of the commodities form the colonies that the sugar planters traded for, but he could think of no logical – or legal – reason for a planter to have so much flour that he would need to sell it. Yet Henry Smith had been quite certain that was what was happening. He also had suggested that Nat might have uncovered this same information and gone to investigate it. After all, he was trying to discover who was stealing the cargo – the flour – from the Slade ships.

"Goin' somewhere, Cap'n?" Oliver eyed the growing pile of clothes Gareth was haphazardly stacking on the bunk.

"Charles Garland was a friend of my father's. I visited his plantation years ago on one of my first voyages here, but he was in Kingsport at the time with his daughter so we've never met. I think it's about time I remedy that situation."

"Ya think he might have somethin' to do with that lost cargo?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out and I hope to find that brother of mine in the process." Satisfied his packing of the small traveling chest, Gareth returned with his eyes and studies his first mate. "You could help me if you would."

"Anythin' Cap'n. Ya know that."

Gareth smiled at seeing the earnest expression on the weather ravaged face of his first mate. He felt some of his anger fade away. There were some things in this world you could count on, and Oliver's friendship and help were among them. "What I ask shouldn't be too hard."

"Ya want me to come with ya?"

"No. I should be able to handle this little visit by myself. All I ask is that you keep a sharp eye out when you visit the local bawdy houses and grog shops. A sharp year, too. Think you can do that?"

Oliver leaned forward, his eyes bright with amusement. "Well now, Cap'n. I always tries to keep me wits about me. What exactly am I supposed ta be watchin' for? Ya think young Nat is drinkin' and whorin' around?"

"Good Lord, no!" Gareth laughed aloud as he tried to imagine his staid younger brother with a tankard of rum in one hand and a buxom partially clad woman in the other. "But you might run into someone who saw him. Maybe a crew member of the Star fish who decided to stay on for awhile after the brig sailed back to Maryland – anything."

"Ya can count on me, Cap'n."

Rising and circling the desk, Gareth laid his hand on his first mate's shoulder. "I know I can, Oliver. There is one last thing I would ask of you. I'd do it myself, of course, but I won't be here." Gareth fished a few gold coins from his pocket. "If you should happen to run into the young lady that was here the other night . . ."

"Ya mean the whore?" Oliver asked with obvious enjoyment.

"Yes. Would you please give her these coins?" He tossed them onto the desk.

Oliver picked up the money and shook his head. "Mighty high-priced little piece, if ya ask me. I heard ya askin' them others 'bout her this mornin'." He shook his head. "She musta' had mosta' her charms hidden, so to speak."

Hidden? Buried, most like it, Gareth thought. Then he remembered the kiss, and just, for an instant, the eyes. "Hell, just give her the money if you see her. And don't make her work for it." He turned away and tried to change the subject. "I'll only be gone a couple days, a sennight at most."

Oliver was not to be diverted. "I'd think she'd be owing the money, the way she wrecked your cabin."

"Perhaps she had reason." Gareth smiled at the shocked expression on Oliver's face, then wished he could remember if she had. More quietly, he continued, "Just give her the money, please. She seemed somewhat" – he searched for a word – "desperate."

***

Desperate was exactly how Avery felt as she slid lower into the brass tub, letting the warm water soak away some of her aches. At Hopewell less than twenty-four hours, she was beginning to realize that, difficult as her journey had been, her homecoming was not going to be as placid as she had hoped. She already foresaw problems.

It had been easy to slip off the ship and find her way through the docks toward the Governor's mansion. Governor Swann had been both shocked and pleased to see her, and after she had explained how she had come to be wandering around Kingsport in rags, he had hastened to have the slaves draw a bath for her. An old gown of Elizabeth's had been found, though it was a trifle to long, and after dropping by for a quick visit at the Turners, she had been sent back to Hopewell in a carriage.

But the fields she'd passed on her way to the great house had been weed-clogged, and even the stately white manse with his abundance of sparkling windows and its wraparound veranda had shown signs of neglect.

"Oh Hattie, I don't ever want to leave this tub," Avery groaned. Then she smiled up at the black woman who had taken care of her for all of her twenty-six years. Hattie's dark face was comforting.

"I take it ya didn't enjoy da ride."

Avery rose slowly, conscious of the muscles in her legs as they rebelled against her abuse of them that afternoon. She had ridden for hours, not the least bit concerned that it was the first time in months she had sat a horse. Avery stepped gingerly from the tub into the towel Hattie held for her. "Of course I didn't enjoy my ride. You know very well I went with Eli Creely." Avery paused a moment, trying to fight down the anger that swept over her whenever she thought of the overseer. "I made him show me everything. Oh, he was madder than a hornet, though he tried not to let me see." Finished drying herself, Avery held up her arms and let the soft linen shift slide down her body. "He had an excuse for everything, of course. Too much rain, slaves running away."

Hattie grunted as she pulled the cords through the eyelets of Avery's stays. "I ain't surprised he has his excuses."

"Have there been problems with the slaves?"

"Some," said Hattie laconically.

"I don't want any hoops," Avery said as Hattie lifted the whalebone and linen garment from the bed. "All I'm going to do this evening is sit with Papa. Has he wakened from his nap yet?"

"Yes'm. Your pa, he's downstairs in da library."

"Downstairs!" Avery swung around, sending her under petticoats swaying around her ankles. "What is he doing downstairs? He promised me he'd stay abed today."

"He has a visitor."

"Well, he's much too weak to be receiving visitors." Avery sat in front of her vanity and let Hattie brush the tangles from her dark hair. She had had it cut nearly to her shoulders upon her return to Hopewell in an effort to rid herself of the split ends she had acquired during her misadventure at sea.

Her father's appearance had been a most unpleasant surprise, though maybe not a complete shock. Wasn't that why she had left Williamsburg in such haste? Hadn't she suspected he might be ill? But she had hardly thought to see her father shrunk to a mere shadow of his former self. Why wasn't he eating? He had always had a healthy appetite, but last evening when she had insisted on bringing a tray to his room he had hardly eaten a thing.

"You're sure a doctor has seen to him?" She turned to face Hattie.

"If ya don't keep your head still I ain't gonna be able to fix your hair," Hattie grumbled as she pulled the brush through the tangled mess.

"Hattie."

"I told ya yesterday, same as I'll tell ya today. Dr. Holt from Kingstone done come up here and looked at da massa. But maybe no your home, Miz Avery, he'll feel more like hisself."

Avery winced, startled that her mammy's words so closely paralleled her own thought. She shouldn't have gone to visit her aunt in Virginia. She had known at the time that her father hadn't been interested in running the sugar plantation on his own, let alone in supervising things at the mill. She had known that since she'd been old enough to ride by herself. At first she had just offered suggestions to her father now and again, whenever she'd noticed things were running less than smoothly. Gradually, however, she had taken over most of the decisions. Zeb Brown was an efficient manager, and despite an initial reluctance on his part, she and that crusty old gentleman had developed quite a good working relationship. She had even thought he'd liked and admired her, grudgingly, of course. But that was before he'd left – just disappeared one day over a year past. Papa had said the wanderlust must have gotten into him, but Avery had never really believed that.

Eli Creely had shown up as if by Providence, not long after that, and he'd seemed to have real flair for managing Hopewell. If he hadn't, of course, Avery would have put her foot down and refused to go to Williamsburg. Which is exactly what she should have done, since it was obvious her father's worrying and fretting over the running of the sugar plantation had affected his health.

She sighed and nodded absently as Hattie picked a length of scarlet ribbon from her dresser to match her gown. "I never should have left."

"Da massa, he wanted you to have a good time, maybe find a husband," she admonished, as if Avery was highly ungrateful.

Avery laughed in spite of herself. "I know exactly what Papa had in mind for my little visit, but you see it didn't work."

"Well now, Miz Avery, and whose fault does ya think that is?"

"Why, Hattie," Avery asked, her eyes bright with amusement, "are you implying it is my fault I did not find a husband?"

"Humph."

"I did have someone propose marriage, you know." Avery bit her tongue because she hadn't meant to tell anyone, but it was too late.

Hattie gaped. "Then why didn't you bring a strong husband back here?"

That was a good question, one she hadn't seriously considered before. She had liked Philip Norrington, John's older brother, well enough. He was handsome, charming, and enthralled with her, which was pleasant for a change, but then she had gotten her father's last post and had left. She hadn't departed without a word, of course. She had sent a note for him, explaining her sudden departure.

"I left," said Avery.

"Ya left a man who wanted to marry ya?"

Avery stood up, trying not to feel offended by Hattie's apparent belief that she had left the only man in the world who would ever want to marry her.

"Yes, I left," she said. "I received Papa's letter, and left. And I'm glad I did. I didn't really want to marry him, anyway. It was the Commodore's older brother, and he's just as priggish as John. Hand me my dress. I'm going downstairs to get rid of that visitor. Who is he, anyway?"

Hattie helped Avery smooth overskirt of her scarlet silk gown. "He's a friend of da massa and" – Hattie rolled her eyes – "one beautiful man."

"Beautiful?" Avery laughed. "A friend of my father's?" She could think of several acquaintances who might have called but not one who could be described as beautiful. As a matter of fact, she decided she had never seen a man she would call beautiful, except maybe . . . .

Firmly, she squelched that thought.

"Men aren't beautiful, Hattie."

"Yes'm, Miz Avery," Hattie agreed, but she grinned lasciviously.

Silly old woman, Avery thought crossly as the heelds of her brocaded silk slippers drummed determinedly against the steps. I care not if he is handsome or beautiful or ugly as sin; he shall find his visit cut as short as courtesy allows.

Avery swept through the wide central hallway. The dark mahogany door of the library was closed, but when she rapped her father bid her enter. His voice, if nothing else, remained staunch and firm.

The interior of the room was dim. Her eyes searched for her father and found him sitting, in the depths of his favorite chair. Avery thought at first Hattie had been mistaken, had imagined this veritable god of a visitor. Except for Papa and herself, the room seemed quite empty. Then she a slight movement behind her drew her attention to the rows of leather-bound volumes she and her father often read and discussed. Charles Garland's visitor must enjoy literature, she thought idly, as she turned, a smile of welcome beginning to curve her lips. But then she froze.

"You," she breathed, and sank into a chair.