VII - The Ball
A ball at the Governor's estate was always an event that no one of Port Royale's gentry would miss. Compared with the guest list of London's society, the event was very small and, in the spirit of 'The more, the merrier', it was not uncommon for Governor Swann to invite the wealthy and respectable merchants of Port Royale as well. As expected, the gathering was now large enough to fill the ballroom and the dinner table, and both parties mingled, unabashed of their social differences.

The halls and corridors where brightly lit, the best silverware and porcelain was shown off at the dinner table and a string quintet fought to be heard over the acoustical layers of conversation.

Commodore Norrington stood off to one side of the dance floor, decked out in his ceremonial uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. Next to him, a young lady tried unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation.

"Oh, it must have been dreadful, Commodore." She cooed and playfully hit his arm with her closed fan.

The light slap brought Norrington's wavering attention back to her. He stared down at Miss Harlington's face with polite curiosity while he feverishly tried to remember what they had been talking about.

"Quiet so, Miss Harpington," he finally commented, his thoughts still not entirely focused.

The smile on her face faltered. She blushed in embarrassment. "My apologies, Commodore, I did not mean to bore you." She curtsied quickly and excused herself.

Puzzled, Norrington was about to call after her, but a soft chuckle behind him made him turn around instead. Lieutenant Groves was looking at him, trying to compose himself.

"Is there something you find amusing, Lieutenant?"

"With all due respect, Sir, even if the lady's company is not to your liking it would be polite to correctly remember her name."

Now it was the Commodore's turn to blush. Too embarrassed to come up with a suitable reply, he nodded curtly at the younger officer, turned back towards the dance floor and found himself face to face with another young lady. Though her face looked familiar, he had to admit that this time he did not remember her name at all. Nevertheless, he forced himself to pay closer attention to the conversation and even succeeded for a whole five minutes before his mind started to drift again.

He felt out of place. He had never been comfortable to attend balls or social gatherings of any kind, but today was even worse than usual.

His father was dead.

After Lieutenant Gillette had left the night before, Norrington had stared for hours into the fireplace until the flames had died down to glowing embers. And even now, twenty-four hours later, he still had not wrapped his mind around that one simple fact. His father was dead.

His gaze wandered through the crowd. Laughing, talking, dancing people. It just did not feel right. They should be mourning. There should be a thunderstorm raging outside, matched, in pure, brute force, with the thunderstorm inside his chest. People should be dressed in black instead of the bright, vibrant colours they displayed tonight. The world should have stopped turning, even if just for one second, to acknowledge the profound loss of this one man. But nothing happened. The world, and the people in it, simply moved on, unaware of his father's passing, and Norrington stood lost in the Governor's ballroom, surrounded by over a hundred people yet apart from all of them.

He realised that the lady next to him, Valentina Moor, he finally remembered, was waiting for an acknowledgement of some kind. He chose to nod in agreement, hoping that the gesture was fitting the conversation. Apparently it did, because the young woman smiled and immediately started chatting again. Norrington concentrated on the music for a while, hoping that it would dissipate the bleakness in his heart, but it proved to be in vain. He saw Isabeau and Constance Travers dancing and almost regretted that he had avoided them all evening. He turned his head slightly and looked towards the open door that led to the terrace and the gardens beyond. His gaze was caught by another young woman who was openly starring at him.

She was dressed in a light green and yellow corseted dress. Her auburn hair was stylishly piled on top of her head and she looked at him with an expression of open amusement. She was pretty, though by far not as beautiful as Elizabeth.

Immediately, Norrington reprimanded himself for measuring her against the Governor's daughter. But he had been too infatuated with Elizabeth, for far too long, to completely ban her from his thoughts.

Given his current state of mind, it did not surprise him that he did not recall the woman's name, but the fact that he could not remember her face either gave him pause. The lady was still looking at him and suddenly nodded rather pointedly to his side where Miss Moor was waiting for him to answer a question. Then she laughed and averted her eyes. Miss Mandel had approached her, and soon they were involved in avid conversation. Belatedly, Commodore Norrington realised that she had tried to warn him and he hastily turned back to Valentina Moor.

The expression on her face could have frozen the entire Caribbean sea. Without a word, she turned around and disappeared, leaving the Commodore feeling utterly miserable with guilt.

* * * * * * *

Mrs. Travers was passing from the dinning room into the ball room when Pamela, her youngest daughter's maid, approached her.

"My lady, I believe Miss Mirabelle might be ill."

Mrs. Travers looked down at the servant girl in alarm.

"Are you sure?"

Pamela nervously twisted the material of her skirt with her hands. "I don't know ma'am. She won't stop crying."

Mrs. Travers hurried into the foyer and up the staircase. "Didn't she say anything? Is she hurt?"

Pamela hurried after her. "She won't say, ma'am. She just keeps crying. I tried to talk to her but she doesn't answer."

They had reached the first floor and Mrs. Travers ran past the library, around the corner, towards the quest rooms.

Suddenly Pamela grasped a small metallic statue off a glass cabinet and hit Mrs. Travers with all her strength. The woman immediately crumbled to the floor, no sound coming from her lips.

Shacking, Pamela bent over her and checked her breathing. It was faint but steady. The maid hurriedly opened the door of a maintenance closet. It took considerable time and effort to pull Mrs. Travers into the small space. Ten minutes later the task had been accomplished. With a careful look to either end of the corridor, Pamela emerged from the closet, closed the door and headed towards Mirabelle's room, as if nothing had happened.

"Good evening, Miss," she whispered into the dark bed room as she entered. "I just wanted to see if you are comfortable."

No answer was forthcoming and Pamela listened to the sound of deep, regular breathing for a few minutes before she approached the bed. Mirabelle was sleeping soundly, which was surprising considering the racket she had made only a few hours earlier. She had been very displeased that her mother had forbidden her to attend the ball.

Pamela quietly opened the floor length windows, which led to a small balcony. Then she left, locking the door behind her.

* * * * * * *

In the meantime Miss Mandel and Miss Constance Travers had joined the Commodore. While Constance was a welcome sight, Miss Mandel was not. She was well know for her skills as a incessant conversationalist and she currently displayed them to agonising perfection

Constance seemed amused, but tried to hide it, as she listened to the woman rambling on from one subject to the next with the undaunted speed of a canon ball. Norrington tried his best to be polite, though he felt that he was going to start screaming fairly soon.

Fortunately, Lieutenant Gillette approached at this moment, his attention completely captivated by Constance. Dutifully, Norrington introduced them. The two of them immediately struck up a conversation of their own, making the Commodore and Miss Mandel, who had actually managed to cease talking for a moment, feel quiet superfluous. Soon Gillette asked the young lady to dance with him, to which she readily agreed.

As Norrington smiled wistfully at the pair, Miss Mandel picked up a glass of wine from one of the passing servants and continued her one-sided conversation. Now that they were alone her behaviour changed, subtly at first than rather obviously. She invaded his personal space, found excuses to touch his arm or, as Miss Harlington had done, slap his chest with her fan.

Growing steadily more uncomfortable, Commodore Norrington backed up one step at a time, since it would have been rather inappropriate to address the lady on concern of her actions. Ten minutes later his back collided with the mantelpiece of a fire place.

Deciding that he had had quiet enough, Norrington attempted to excuse himself, but rescue came in form of the young woman who had been so amused at his predicament earlier. She approached, her gaze seemingly occupied with the minuet on the dance floor. Suddenly, she stumbled and fell right against Miss Mandel, who spilled her wine over the front of her dress.

"Oh my god. I am so sorry." The unknown woman had her hands pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. "I am so clumsy." She tried to dab at the stains with her handkerchief, a string of apologies flying from her mouth. She appeared so inconsolable, that Norrington almost believed that it had really been an unfortunate accident. Almost.

The stunned Miss Mandle seemed to finally recover and stammered not very eloquently.

"Look, what you have done."

Suddenly, her head snapped up and she glared at the offender. Miss Mandle slapped the woman's hand away and ran off in a huff. The scene had drawn quiet a bit of attention, but the Commodore could not be sure if the stranger's blush could be attributed to true discomfort or good acting.

Although he felt some gratefulness to be free of Miss Mandel's clutches, and it was impolite to accuse a lady of such deviousness, he felt no restrains to confront her.

"You did that on purpose," he said quietly, so no one could overhear.

The woman glanced up at him and laughed unabashed. "I could not see you suffer a moment longer."

The statement took him aback. He wrecked his mind for a reply, but heedlessly she continued.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, Captain. I believe it would be best to depart as long as I have some dignity left."

She had already moved half way around him, when she suddenly stopped. Norrington followed her gaze and saw Miss Mandel's mother approach from across the room, her face tight with anger.

The young woman moved backwards and looked for an escape route, when Norrington decided that it was only fair to return the favour. "Would you dance with me?" he asked, his hand already reaching for hers.

"Dance?" She looked at him with wide eyes. "I can't dance."

Norrington raised his eyebrows.

"I mean… I had lessons, but my instructor told me that teaching me was a rather hopeless endeavour. I believe it was the only time we agreed on anything." The last sentence was added quietly, almost as if she was talking to herself.

"I'm sure whatever knowledge you retain of your lessons will be sufficient," he tried to assure her and gently pulled at her arm.

Suddenly there was a very cautious, almost cold look in her eyes and she broke free of his hand.

She glanced over her shoulder at Mrs. Mandel and seemed to come to the conclusion that she would not be able to escape to the gardens or the dinning room in time. With a frown she looked back up at Norrington and nodded. "Very well, then."

They speedily crossed the floor and took their places among the other dancers. The minuet started out with the women and men standing in two lines opposite each other. At the start of the music both lines moved forward.

The men took the women's hands, then both parties spun in a half circle and stepped back again. Norrington could have followed the steps with closed eyes. He had gained enough practise during events like these, both in England and the Caribbean, and so he used the time to study the woman next to him. She, on the other hand, was completely focused on the women around her and tried to mimic their steps. Norrington could see that she must have had lessons at one point, though she moved as if she had never put them to further use. It was most unusual and Norrington spent several minutes trying to figure out why.

After several turns and a variety of combinations, they followed couples past a row of men on the left and women on the right side. Norrington used the opportunity to ask a few questions.

"May I ask your name?"

The woman's gaze snapped up to his face. She managed a smile. "My apologies, Captain. I forgot my manners. My name is Cassandra Browden. "

Norrington was surprised that she had addressed him wrong twice and concluded that she had not been in Port Royale long. He smiled indulgently.

"It's Commodore, actually. Commodore James Norrington, at you service."

When Miss Browden stumbled this time, it was not on purpose.

* * * * * * *

Mirabelle blinked into the darkness. She did not know what had woken her and so she lay still for a moment. She could hear music drifting through the open window. The heavy curtains billowed in a light breeze.

Mirabelle sat up. She rubbed her hands over her face and blinked sleepily towards the open balcony. Wasn't there a shadow there? She felt fear creeping up her spine.

Taking a deep breath she called out: "Is anybody there?"

There was no answer and Mirabelle chided herself for being frightened so easily. Muttering softly under her breath she put her head back on the pillow, when suddenly a hand pressed down on her mouth.

She tried to scream, her heart beating like a wild thing in her chest. Fear paralysed her for a second. She was lifted effortlessly into strong arms. In her desperation she bit into the hand on her face which was pulled back immediately. There was someone cursing behind her, but Mirabelle paid no attention. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream.

A sharp slap across her face made her fall to the ground. The pain brought tears to her eyes and through the blur she could see another man jumping into the room. She was held down and cloth was pressed into her mouth, making it hard to breath. She struggled and kicked her short legs into the air, desperate to hit something, but the men were too strong.

Before she knew it, they had carried her to the balcony and throw her over the balustrade. Someone caught her and she was roughly thrown over a man's shoulder. The tears had dried on the girl's face. She was to terrified to cry. She was handed over the wall that separated the Governor's estate from the street and soon saw the mansion's lights receding in the distance.

* * * * * * *

"Are you all right?" The Commodore asked.

He had caught Miss Browden before she could hit the floor.

Immediately, she pushed away from him, her face pale. She took a deep breath and composed herself.

"My apologies, Commodore. I believe I am a little dizzy." She laughed unsteadily.

Aware that they had draw the attention of the entire room again, Norrington suggested that they step outside for a moment. Miss Browden agreed, although she was hesitant enough to make him realise that she would rather not spent any more time in his company.

Trying not to frown, Norrington offered his arm, and they walked through the gossiping guests. He could hear them whisper, and although they kept their voiced too low from him to decipher words, he knew that he and Miss Browden where the subjects of their conversation.

Miss Browden must have realised this as well. She straightened considerably and held her chin high, as they passed through the crowd.

On the balcony, she let go of his arm and turned to face him. "I owe you an apology, Commodore."

Noringon raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands behind his back. The expression on her face was cold and guarded, and he matched it with one of his own.

"I did not meant to be disrespectful. I merely expected someone of your rank to be a great deal older than you are."

Norrington inhaled slowly. He had expected an explanation for her behaviour, rather than an apology for addressing him wrong.

"That's quiet all right." He said formally. "On occasions as these , I am accustomed to be surrounded by ignorance," he could not resist to add, be it because of the recent news of his father's death, or a sudden whim born of exhaustion at the falseness around him.

Cassandra Browden's brown eyes shone almost black with anger. She curtsied awkwardly. "Then it would be best not to strain your patience any longer, Commodore." And she was gone.

* * * * * * *