While Grace wasn't quite of what she should do, the moment she began to wander the streets of Tortuga she developed a very firm grasp on what she wanted to do. She wanted to get drunk off her arse and not start thinking about tomorrow until it hit her. That sensible voice in her head whined more than a little about what a bad idea it was, but it did convince her to take a few precautions. She decided to find one of the quieter pubs to do her drinking—she was less likely to get her purse stolen or her jaw broken (something she was wary of after glancing through the window of an establishment called the Faithful Bride).
She chose what seemed to be one of the tamest bars on the entire island, the Seagull's Egg. It was a jolly place and she was first drawn into the pub on the outskirts of town by the loud singing she heard from within. Inside a small group of minstrels were gathered around the fire, belting out the lyrics to a bawdy song she'd never heard before. Even patron in the common room seemed to know the words to the chorus, which they joined in on every time around. It wasn't even terribly crowded. A table of three old men sat at the table nearest the fire, their mugs raised and moved to punctuate the words of the chorus, sloshing drink all over the table—and themselves. A very rotund man with a wide, round face and a thick red beard was laughing loudly at some joke the young, dark-haired man across from him had just finished telling. There was a very crowded table near the bar full of what she would have called the "younger crowd", though they were probably quite near her own age. It surprised her that there were more women than men at the table—one young blond with her hair full of curls sat on the lap of a young man whose hair was obviously thinning a bit early. Beside them was laughing woman with her straight, dark hair shorn off at the shoulders. To her right was yet another woman, though this one had a child-like stature—she could hear the girl's soprano of the chorus all the way from where she stood at the far side of the room. Next to the small woman was a fast-talking wench with a rather large nose—she seemed to be telling off the tall, lanky man beside her, who was rolling his eyes. The tall man's arm was around another young woman with long, stick-straight blonde hair who looked more than a little like the lass sitting on her man's lap. At her right was a young woman with her reddish hair tucked into a bun who chose to shake her head at the proceedings. At yet another table sat a scarred man that she judged to be in his middle-years—she also judged both him and his companion to be pirates. The last occupied table held the mugs of two more men—one was a tall, formidable-looking bald man, the other a squat old man with thick graying hair who looked a trifle disorganized.
There was an obviously well fed man behind the counter who seemed to own the establishment, and two young women flitted from table to table, keeping drinks full and picking up shillings. The minstrels finished their song amid cheers and there were cries all around for one shanty or another. Grace crossed to an empty table near the bar, the crowded table of youths between her and the minstrels. The large-nosed wench and the child-like young woman beside her had both stood and were calling to the musicians for "Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum". Grace found herself suppressing a laugh at their behavior as a buxom redheaded wench seemed to appear out of thin air to ask what she'd like.
"What do you have?" she asked, almost forgetting to use her "Grey" voice. The woman heaved a great sigh before speeding through a well-memorized list of food and drink that Grace caught very few words of. Thankfully, she caught the words "chicken" and "rum" without much trouble and ordered them.
"That's goin' tae put ye out two shillings," she said, holding out her hand. Grace set the purse Jack had given her on the table—she hadn't dared to let it out of a death grip on the streets—and pulled out a gold coin. A little irked, she lifted the pouch to her right eye and opened the mouth wide to peer within. After jiggling it a bit she judged that there were about nine gold pieces in the purse and nothing else. She glanced up to see the redheaded woman giving her a hard look and dropped the tenth gold piece into the wench's hand. The woman raised an eyebrow as she bit the piece to check its authenticity, then, satisfied, left to get a mug for the young "man". Grace turned her attention to the minstrels, who had already begun a new song, which praised the inventor of beer.
"Ye kin join us if ye like," it was the blonde woman with straight hair; she'd turned her head and was giving Grace an appraising look. "There's room fer ye," she gestured to the small amount of space between the redhead and the lovers.
"If you really don't mind…" she trailed off. One part of her wanted to drown herself in alcohol—she was utterly alone in this place (which she now saw was Godforsaken), Elizabeth, Will, Mrs. James, and Garth Cooper were all still in Port Royale and there was a good chance she'd never see them again. Not to mention that she'd been simply abandoned by Jack and his crew—she'd half expected Jack to ask if she wanted to stay on. Which is, of course, a very stupid thing to think. Why would he want me on board? I punched him for goodness' sakes! She'd assumed that Annamaria would, at least, show her around, but the woman had dashed right into the crowd—Bailey following like an ever-present shadow. There was another part of her—the part that she was (at that moment, anyway) more inclined to listen to. It was the part that didn't want to be all by herself and knew that if she didn't take some kind of action she'd stay all by herself.
"A-course, not!" the woman smiled. The rest of the patrons at the table glanced at her one by one as she walked over and sat down. The last to give her a once-over was the fast-talking young woman who was still telling that tall man off for some reason or another. She narrowed a pair of blue eyes after getting a good look at Grace.
"Why be ye in men's clothes?" she asked. Grace paled, gripping her pouch tightly. She realized her error quickly—she had her left arm pressed against her side, presenting some curves that Grey most certainly didn't have.
"Why don't you shaddup?" the tall man was glaring down at her.
"Oh, we all know how bloody well likely that is to 'appen," she retorted before looking back to Grace for an answer—an answer which she, honestly, didn't have.
"She probably thinks they're more comfortable," the small woman piped up, articulating every word. The big-nosed (not to mention nosy) wench nodded, seeming to accept the answer. There was a loud clunk as a full wooden mug was placed in front of her. Grace grabbed it immediately and took a swig. She was more than a little dismayed to find that the rum had been watered down to the point that it should have rightly been called grog, but hadn't really expected better.
Just then the musicians struck up a new tune, one that seemed to be both very well known and very well liked. Every patron in the tavern began to sing and clap along (some with much better voices than others) with plenty of volume and enthusiasm. Grace clapped along, intent on learning the words and quelling the sudden left-out feeling inside.
"And it's all for me grog, me jolly jolly grog,
All for me beer and tobacco!
Well, I spent all me tin with a lassie drinkin' gin,
For across the western ocean I must waaaander!"
It was a fairly easy chorus, she mused to herself as the minstrels went on to ask where their "noggin' noggin' boots" were with a little less help from the crowd. The next time the chorus came around she belted the words out—so what if she mixed up "gin" and "tin" and missed a few of the shorter words? She grinned broadly—they'd almost never gotten music-makers in the Tattered Rose and she considered it a bit of a treat (though from the state of the pubgoers, their performances were frequent). She took another swig of grog as the song ended, then started a conversation with the reddish-haired woman. Before long the child-like woman across the table had joined in and the topic changed from simple introductions to, well, something else. Grace never could remember—and with good reason. The chicken came and went, but her mug was refilled often enough that she was never in want of the drink. She could, however, remember thinking that she'd indeed accomplished the goal of getting drunk off her arse.
Mary was not in a good mood. She'd been staying with her brother for two days now and still had no idea of what he was up to. But she knew he was up to something—that was something in itself, wasn't it? She'd known he was into something amiss before she'd even departed from London, however, so it really wasn't something. She let out a sigh and began to unpin her hair—she'd sent the maid to bed hours ago, insisting that she could undress herself, which she had nearly an hour ago. It was the middle of the night and she was still waiting for Brody to leave his study so she could search it for a clue. This was the second night in a row that she'd decided to wait up for him to go to bed—the night before he hadn't gone to bed at all. He'd slept in the room, if he'd slept at all. She had done the sensible thing and tried the study during the day, while her dear brother was at work, but the doors had been locked.
She doubted he was on to her, though. That was why father had sent her in the first place, instead of coming himself. Brody was less likely to suspect that his sister was digging into his affairs than he was to suspect his father. She smiled herself as she felt the strands finally come loose and fall to tickle the back of her neck. Father had shown quite a bit of confidence in her, sending her all the way to Port Royale to investigate her brother's dealings. She gave a little smirk as she stood, leaving the still unturned bed sheets slightly ruffled. The full moon bathed her windowed room in light, extinguishing the need for a candle. She crossed the room, enjoying the feel of the cool wooden floor on her bare feet. Carefully, she unlocked the window and pushed it open, then leaned on the sill. Her first glance was down, to the drive that led up to the back door of the two-story home. Her next glance was to the ocean, shimmering in the moonlight. It was certainly pretty enough from land, but she dreaded the trip back—she was, it seemed, prone to seasickness.
A cool breeze ruffled her nightgown and she sighed. Brody's business had been doing poorly. Poorly enough that he should have sent to their father for money long ago—but he hadn't. Father never really did trust the little weasel, she thought with a smirk, remembering that he'd asked her brother's butler to keep him appraised of what went on in her sibling's Caribbean home. Then again, she didn't blame the old man. Brody was a troublemaker and a constant blemish on their family's honorable name. His sickening reputation in London was one matter, the woman he'd killed while there a second. He also had a horrible gambling problem. Mary saw him as nothing more than a degenerate and was ashamed to claim any relation to the man. Which was one reason she'd traveled to this island hideaway—if her brother was maintaining his lifestyle through illegal mean, it would be his downfall. Their father would disown him and probably name her his heir. She always had been the favorite, after all. She made her way to the small table beside her bed and lifted the small teacup she'd left there to her lips. It had long-since cooled, but the refreshment was welcome and returned some of her alertness. She'd stay up all night if she had to—and if that didn't work, she'd try something else. She would get to the bottom of whatever he was up to. She would see him cast from the family and watch as he floundered without them.
Someone was shaking her. A low groan escaped Grace's lips as she lifted her throbbing head.
"Thought we ought let ye sleep a while, but ole Tom's bootin' us out," a voice near her ear shouted—she recognized it as the voice of the tall man, Robert, from the night before.
"If yer goin' tae blame me fer her wakin', leave her sleep," came a rough voice from somewhere above her. She blinked her eyes open and bright natural light filtered around her arms. She'd had enough of that very quickly and closed them again. She was sitting, Grace realized suddenly. She must've fallen asleep at the table—an assumption that was given strength by the wooden surface beneath her head (which rested partly on her arms and partly on the table).
"You'll make sure she'll all right, Mr. Gall?" came the punctuated voice of the short woman—Katherine, was it?
"Aye! Now get yerselves home afore ye miss yer chores!" she heard the roar of several pairs of feet shuffling across the dirt floor. I think this may well be the worst hangover I've ever gotten. Either that, or it was bad rum. Slowly, carefully, she blinked her eyes open and raised her head. The well-fed man from the night before—the pub's owner—was wiping the table beside her with a damp cloth. When he noticed her movement he was beside her in a flash.
"Are ye feelin' well, lassie?" he asked, putting a large hand on her back.
"Not partil…" she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the word she was looking for. It didn't take her long to give up. "No," she amended.
"I'll get ye some o' the local remedy," he patted her back before moving off—the jarring didn't help her head one bit. She'd hardly had time to string her thoughts together when he returned. "'Ere ye are," he said setting a mug down in front of her. She eyed it suspiciously, then reached out, grabbed it and took a tentative drink. It was even viler than Lena's hideous brew. It took every ounce of determination she had to tip the mug back and try to down it all in one gulp. It didn't work and she ended up with thick streams of the stuff running down her cheeks. The man—Tom Gall?—wiped her face with the cloth still in his hand.
"I'm on Tortuga, aren't I?" she asked laboriously.
"Aye, and ye drank quite enough for 'alf the population in jus' one night," he replied. "Now d'ye mind tellin' me what yer doin' walking 'round in men's clothing with a purse full of gold?" She had a feeling he was trying to get an answer out of her while the hangover still had a good grip.
"I'm…" she paused, trying to think of a suitable explanation. Not finding one, she decided a change of subject was in order. "I'm lookin' for a job."
"Ye a good worker?" he was eyeing her with a little suspicion in his green eyes.
"Aye, an' I can cook," she smacked herself internally for the lie—just because she'd gotten lucky on the ship by not having to cook didn't mean she'd get lucky here. In a tavern that served the stuff fresh.
"Well, kin ye dress like a woman an' wait the tables?"
"Just about anything you want as long as I can find a place to sleep and make a living," she told her. Her throat was clogged with mucus, giving her voice a strange, low tone.
"Rosie!" he hollered. Grace groaned at the noise. "Ye still want some 'elp with the tables?" The buxom redhead who'd waited on her the night before appeared from a back room and she felt the woman's eye upon her.
"Aye, she'll do," the woman said, confidence in her tone.
"Well, then, ye kin get a little more sleep, then we'll give ye a job—what d'ye say to that, eh?" Tom asked.
"I say 'Aye!'" she told him, putting her head back down and doing her darnedest to get back to sleep.
Don't worry, Jack's going to be in the next chapter! The very first section even! Brody will show up as well (in more than the less-than-flattering thoughts of his sister). Chapter the Tenth (double digits! Yay!^_^;;) will probably be done around Thursday. If it isn't, you can blame Dan Brown for writing The Da Vinci Code, which had me hooked by the second paragraph (ooooh! It's so good!). Anyway, I had this entire chapter finished on Sunday—but it was horrible. Abosolutely atroucious (agh! Alliteration!). So I scrapped it and called my buddy Kat to discuss plot twistiness. Let's just say that the next chapter or two will find the plot sufficiently twisted, thanks in quite a bit of part to Kitty Kat.
Speaking of people I know in real life, most of the pub's patrons are loosely based on people I know in real life (yes, yes…shameful and sad to do such a thing). I'll take the digital camera with me next time I see Kat (she's the short wench) and make her do the face she did when she figured it out. I'll post it on my webpage—it'll be entertaining, I promise. ^_-
One thing that I could find nothing on was the biting of gold to check for authenticity—if you know anything about the practice, please let me know. It's driving me nuts. ;P
*glomps all reviewers* It makes my day whenever I find out that somebody's been enjoying the piece. That's why I'm writing it, after all. ^_^
Thanks for reading!^_^