Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean—neither the story or any of its characters. If I did, I would be working on making a sequel, not writing fanfiction. I do, however, own Emily and the story that follows as my own creations. Why anyone might want to steal them, I don't know, but it would upset me. Please don't.
While writing disclamations and such, I'd like to express my heartfelt thanks to all those that review, and to all those that criticize particularly. Every time I find a review notice in my inbox, I get a wonderful thrill of happiness. Thank you for taking the time.
Emily stared out the mansion's second story window, distractedly arranging the flowers in their vase on the sill as she watched the tall young man make his way down the drive. Will had been up to see Miss Swann again. She sighed with longing, and straightened the starchy-white cloth cap that held dark curls back from her round face. It was always so itchy. She envied her mistress with her soft silks and linens shipped over from England. The warm Caribbean sunlight was broken by a salty breeze on her face as she opened the windows to air the large bedroom. That was the only nice thing about living in such a place, she thought. The sunshine, the ocean, and Will Turner. Otherwise, she'd take London any day.
Will had rounded the corner of the hedge, and Emily sighed and started straightening the rumpled bed sheets. She shouldn't complain; as a maid to the governor's only daughter, her place in life was quite comfortable, even if it couldn't compare to the bustle and glitter of England's most brilliant city, or to the pampered life of Miss Elizabeth. Skirts rustling, she sat on her lady's large bed and let her fertile imagination make her a grand lady, lying abed until noon amidst the rich wood and finery of the room. She stood and twirled about, her mind making her clean habit metamorphose into milky smooth fabric of some expensive persuasion.
"Why Will, what a pleasant surprise to find you here! I didn't think that you attended these kinds of balls, but –dance with you? I'd love to," she prattled to herself, before launching into what might be called a waltz if was less like a country dance. Smiling, she completely lost herself in this imaginary world.
A melodious voice broke through her daydream. "Emily? Did you notice if my rose cotton came up from the laundry yet? Emily?"
The maid whipped about, almost tripping over her own feet as she stumbled to arrange herself into an I-was-just-cleaning position. The governor's only child swept into the room, five feet and seven inches of sparkling, glossy perfection. Her chestnut hair was combed and curled; her face was all strawberries and cream. Emily felt the accustomed wave of indulgent bitterness. No wonder Will was in love with Miss Elizabeth. No wonder everyone was in love with the girl. Some people simply were blessed with everything in life.
Elizabeth crossed the room to gaze out the window. "Well?" she inquired. Emily had forgotten that there had been a question.
"The––the rose cotton, milady? I washed it only yesterday; would you like me to bring it for you?"
"Please," came the reply. Emily curtsied, and bustled out of the room and down the stairs.
Charles was in the servants' quarter, charting out the schedule for the next day's work. The elderly servant sat straight-backed even as he leaned forward over the thick oak table that served as desk, dining area, and occasionally bed. He waved an imperious hand at Emily as she entered, telling her the unmistakable language of a steward that he had a task for her as soon as she had a free moment. Emily made a face as soon as the glint of his spectacles had returned to his quill and paper, and crossed the chill stone floor––it was always cold in this room, despite the heat and humidity outside––to the courtyard in which the laundry hung to dry, creating flapping shadows on the ground. Another difference between London and Port Royal, she supposed. In the Old Country, any whites hanging between the windows of tenements would soon gray with coal dust.
The damp banners of shifts and stockings swung gently in a pleasant breeze, rocking the cord tied between two towering magnolias. They were just beginning to bloom, like the white bird wings peeking between the dark and shiny leaves, only without the incessant chirping and fluttering that birds here were inclined to do. Emily pinched the fabrics––carefully with the silk––and pulled down the ones that weren't still wet. To her disgust, the skirt Elizabeth had asked for was still dripping, having been hung up inside of a dress by a careless washwoman. Well, that was what the governor got for hiring just anyone, wasn't it? It saved money, certainly, but the descendants of cobblers, Indians, and doubtlessly pirates that peopled these islands never had any idea of how to do things properly. With a frustrated sigh, Emily untangled the skirt and snapped it sharply to both shake out the wrinkles and vent her annoyance.
She was beginning to gather up the clean, dry clothes when the harsh sounds of raised voices reached her from the road that ran just outside the tidy hedge border of the courtyard. Frowning––wasn't it just like people to ruin a peaceful day with arguing?––she stood on tiptoes to see if she could get a glimpse of the noisy combatants, but to no avail. The six-foot tall line of shrubbery dwarfed her plump frame. Mulishly, she glanced around for another way to see what was happening. The twanging movement of the clothesline caught her eye, which then traveled to the old magnolia closest to her.
In a matter of seconds, the maidservant hiked up her gray skirts, kicked off her slippers, and hoisted herself up into the branches of the tree in a completely un-ladylike manner. With agility born of much illicit practice, scrambled up, hearing the voices grow louder. From a settled-in seat in the upper branches, she could see perfectly well.
Two men stood on the road that led from the town to the mansion, and the contrast between the two was almost humorous. The taller of the two was also the pinker, his round face flushed with anger and brows drawn together in frustration. His bulk made the other seem almost delicate, but a closer look made it clear that this was not the case. In what seemed blatant defiance of the large man's smooth, well-fed aura of domesticity, scars traced sun-burnt and wind-weathered skin, and visible even from a distance were the stringy muscles that coiled around skeletal arms as they pulled easily from the damp grip of the shouting man, who was doing his best to keep his aggravator from escaping.
From her perch, Emily recognized the fat man as Master Gerard, proprietor of the Pickled Boar. The tavern-owner's worries seemed to be useless; aside from breaking away from Gerard's hold, Scar-face seemed to have no intention of doing aught but lounge in place, arms crossed and a look of insolence and scorn on his face.
One pudgy hand was waving a fistful of coins under the hooked nose. "Three crowns you spent, wharf scum," he bellowed in a voice that was well-accustomed to bellowing across a noisy and crowded common room. "Ale, food, the room––I expect to be paid with the king's gold, not this, this––"
Scar-face glanced lazily down at the gold. "And ye think that I'm good enough a scapegoat to give to the guv'ner? I paid my due; it's fair bad practice to drag a man up to the noose just on suspicion." His voice was pitched lower than the other man's; Emily had to strain her ears to catch his words. He gestured to the worn leather and rags that clothed him. "Like I told ye, I'm just an honest sailor."
Gerard snorted. "Just like these are honest coins over the lead filling, eh?" Smoothing his own well-made shirtfront, he scowled. "You're the only ruffian I've seen in the past fortnight with the gall to pass off false coinage. And the captain––bless him–– knows just what to do with your ilk." He grabbed his prisoner by the arm again, pulling the strangely unresisting man up the lane to the elegant front door of the mansion, seeming unaware of the smaller man's obvious acquaintance with violence.
Leaning back in the tree, Emily made a face. It was just like that over-stuffed bartender to bother the governor with something like this, when it should properly be taken to a magistrate, a lower official. And speaking of proper...
She waited until the two were out of sight before clambering down from the branches, finding handholds and footholds easily despite the leaves and twigs that caught on her dress. Muttering to herself, she landed on the solid ground again and brushed off the debris. She gazed up at the magnolia with a bit of guilt; it wasn't at all decorous behavior to enjoy scrambling up and down trees.