By the time they filed into the church and slipped into their proper pews, the servants were grateful for the chance to sit after their long walk, even if it was to sit through a unintelligible two hour Latin service. The Holy Church of Our Lady Royal was located on the side of the town nearest the fort, and farthest from the manor. There was probably something symbolic in that, Emily thought as she pulled out her prayer book, but whatever it was escaped her.
From the little English sprinkled in the droning voice of the priest, the morning's sermon was to do with duty, order, and discipline. Guiltily reflecting on her tree-climbing forays, spates of idleness, and a poorly dusted higher shelf in the drawing room—but was the last her fault? She had hardly been able to reach it!—she schooled herself into the proper penitent frame of mind. She would be good, she would be hard-working, she would stop being jealous of Elizabeth, she would be the kind of person with whom her mother would be happy. Not that she'd likely ever return to her mother, but the principle was the same.
Despite her best intentions, after the first hour had dragged past, her thoughts slipped out of their pious channels. Automatically mouthing the responses when it was required, Emily's attention was caught in the dust motes that swirled in the draft from the doors that had been left open through a sense of self-preservation. No one in the church wished their immortal souls to arrive prematurely before the heavenly gates simply because they had roasted within a Caribbean church/oven.
Light stained from the emerald and scarlet dyed windows glittered in the dusty air. The sacred and ephemeral beauty of the scene was not lost on her, but her perverse practicality of mind wondered if the place was ever decently cleaned. Was that a duty of the priests, to wipe down the dark wooden benches with a cloth, and to rub them with lemon polish? Or did slaves do it? She imagined it must be the latter, her mind's eye shying from the vision of the dignified old men hiking their robes up to their knees and scrubbing the floor of the church. She swallowed a giggle. It would be extremely inappropriate to laugh in church, although it wouldn't be the only sound from the ideally silent and attentive congregation. But no, there was the ever present wave-like noise of fidgeting and rustling fabrics, punctuated with sneezes and coughs (no doubt caused by that improperly cleaned holy dust) like the sound of the ocean was punctuated by driftwood slapping against the dock. Caught up in her imaginings, Emily could hear the sea wind as well, brushing through with the breathing of so many people, and with the waving of paper fans to ward off the insidious heat. One fan in particular was almost humming with movement, further in the front of the church. Curious, Emily leaned forward to see, disguising the movement by dropping her handkerchief and reaching for it. The fan belonged to Elizabeth, who seemed to be suffering some discomfort, no doubt from her newly acquired corset. Emily felt a brief flash of sympathy for the girl, who still would have to endure the ordeal of an hour standing in the sun, watching the garrison at Fort Charles go through their well-practiced formations and displays in honor of James Norrington.
Handkerchief now conveniently in hand, Emily closed her eyes and wiped perspiration from her face. She found it difficult to re-open them. While the pew was certainly designed to be as uncomfortable as possible, the heat allied with the dull noise against any fortification discomfort might offer against dozing. And she, unlike others, didn't have a corset to crush her into wakefulness.
It seemed only a minute had passed before Emily was greeted with a shove into her side. "Emily!" The word was hissed into her ear.
"—Amen." Opening her eyes, Emily gathered that the response wasn't quite on time. Estrella shook her arm again, as Emily looked around in puzzlement at the people already standing and leaving the church.
With an irritated look, the other maid whispered, "Would you mind getting up so we could all do the same? You're rather blocking the way." Emily hastily stood so that the others could slide out of the pew and walk past, still trying to clear her head and vision. In the haze of confusion that afflicts those that have only just awakened, she was blurrily wondering what had happened to the rest of the sermon when someone—or several someones; it seemed like everyone was trying to leave the stuffy hall at once—bumped her aside, nearly knocking her down in her bemused state. Hands on her shoulders steadied her.
"Falling asleep in church isn't exactly polite, Emily," Will told her, setting her straight as she blinked. His beautiful face—don't blush, please don't—was serious above the slightest twitch of his lips. If he thought her antics funny, he would never show it.
Ducking her head, she muttered, "Please. It's not as if it's a habit or anything." He sighed, waiting. "I'll apologize. And probably be assigned a hundred Hail Mary's for the courtesy, and it'll be your fault."
He grinned briefly. "I don't believe I was the one who fell asleep."
"But you would make me apologize, and throw myself upon the mercy of the minister, wouldn't you?"
He raised an eyebrow as they walked to the door. "You wouldn't do the right thing otherwise?"
Expelling her breath in dramatic defeat, Emily reluctantly admitted, "You're right. I should." Darting a quick glance at him, she added jealously, "Elizabeth would apologize without being told." After a pause, she said, "Then again, she probably would never fall asleep in the first place." She blinked sunspots from her eyes as they stepped out of the gloomy church.
Will didn't notice her grumbling as his own eyes took on a dreamy cast. "No, I don't think I've ever seen her sleep in church. She's too p—"
Polite, he might have said. Or maybe perfect, if this was one of his more infatuated days. Emily didn't find out, as they were interrupted by the lady herself, like two of the heathen voodoo priests summoning a spirit by name.
"Emily? I wanted to ask—oh. Hello, Will."
"Miss Swann."
There was a moment of silence as they smiled at each other. Seeing Elizabeth again in her new dress, Emily decided the word would have more likely been perfect. Clearing her throat and subtlety positioning herself more between the two, she curtsied in her most moment-breaking manner. "You needed something, miss?"
Elizabeth looked awkwardly at Will. "Would you mind excusing us a moment?" she asked apologetically. Still having some difficulty finding words, he nodded and stepped off. It wasn't long before a few of his acquaintances swept him into the stream of people heading to the fort. Elizabeth gave him only one second glance before turning to Emily.
"It's this thrice-cursed corset! I can hardly breathe, let alone fan myself. And it's so hot today, and this ridiculous contraption makes it worse--" Her voice was low and fierce, her expression beseeching. Emily understood.
"You'd like me to—to attend you? At the ceremony?" She tried not to let her face fall visibly. It was Sunday, the Sabbath, a rest day. She was, technically, free after the church service.
Emily looked again at Elizabeth. She was breathing rather more heavily than was normal for the elegant young woman, and there was a light patina of perspiration on her face, not quite controlled by the dusting of make-up powder that had been applied that morning. Sitting in the church must have been a hellish ordeal.
"You don't need to," Elizabeth said quickly. "It's Sunday, after all, and I'm sure you'd rather stand with your friends instead."
Emily felt an unfortunately timed wave of pity. It wasn't Elizabeth's fault that her father had made her wear the corset, or that she looked fabulous in it, or that Will... She made herself stop that line of though before she changed her mind. "Of course I will, miss. It's terribly hot today, isn't it?"
Elizabeth's look of relief made Emily feel terrible for even considering refusing. "Thank you, Emily. You'll ride in the carriage of course." What an honor.
"Elizabeth, we're leaving," came the governor's voice from the carriage standing on the gravel drive leading from the church. His head appeared in the window, motioning them over. Emily followed her mistress at the proper distance for a servant, climbing into the carriage after Elizabeth only with a certain degree of healthy hesitation—it looked much less sturdy up close.
The inside of the coach was now rather crowded, and neither the governor nor Charles—granted a position in the carriage due to his venerable age and respected position—looked particularly pleased with the newest addition. They weren't about to say anything, however; Elizabeth wasn't to be denied the comforts of a maid if that was what she desired. Emily, for her part, didn't have the stomach to notice their disapproving glances. The coach bounced, and it seemed as though at least two of the four wheels left the safety of the road with every rut and rock they hit. She found herself clutching the handle on the door with both hands, loosening the whitened knuckles only to take the extra fan Elizabeth had retrieved from under the seat cushions. The governor's daughter was suppressing a smile as Emily dropped the proffered fan in her lap with the speed of a frightened hare, hands then returning to their death grip on the door.
The trip seemed interminable, passing through Emily's perceptions with the unbearable slowness of nauseated nervousness. Charles began a quiet conversation with Governor Swann about the recent tariff England had placed on spices, but Emily had trouble following their low voices. Elizabeth was neatly folding a handkerchief. None of them seemed to notice how near their mode of transportation was to collapsing. When the dratted thing finally jolted to an unsteady halt, relief washed over Emily so intensely, she could barely get up until Elizabeth prodded her. She then realized that her eyes were screwed tightly shut.
Outside the carriage, she still felt woozy. The coachman had inadvertently timed their arrival to coincide with that of all the sensible pedestrian attendees, and so she wasn't allowed to rest long enough to dispel the dizziness without risking being separated from the governor's party. They had already begun to walk off past the orderly, red and white garbed soldiers, and Emily was forced to swallow her disorientation and follow.
Unfortunately, someone was hastening in the same direction, with a bit more rapidity than Emily was able to muster at the moment. The personage was either nearsighted, preoccupied, or jostled by another member of the arriving crowd, but the result was a collision with the hapless maid. She stumbled, tripped, and skidded with less poise than normal, but somehow managed to avoid taking a disgraceful seat on the stones of the fort. Before she could congratulate herself on the save, she took stock and found her hand alarmingly empty. The fan—! Pulse quickening, she darted a glance at the various pairs of feet marching on to the courtyard. There, not too far away. Without thinking about it, she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled to it, reached, and... grasped empty space. A wayward foot had kicked it another few yards away. Biting down a curse, she scrambled after it, only to suffer the same offense. She growled, and crawled a few feet further—and it was gone. A hand did present itself to her, though, and she took it to pull herself up after realizing that its fellow held her sought-after paper fan. That was the last good news she found.
"My apologies for, ah, upsetting you, miss." The voice was ominously cultured and well-pronounced, lacking the rough edges and slurred vowels of the working class. "I'm afraid I was in something of a hurry."
"Captain—Commodore—Cap—sir." She stuttered over the proper title. Emily could feel the blood rising in her face, was sure it was flaming red by now.
"Yes, it is awkward, isn't it? Captain will do for now." His thin lips seemed to be smiling, unless it was a trick played on her by the mind of a one dying of embarrassment. "You may be grateful to know that the stones were scrubbed down earlier for the ceremony." In crisp dress uniform and with perfectly straight military posture, he was a construct of lines and decorum. His sharp gaze seemed to examine her to find every rumpled inch of her dress, every wayward curl of hair, every misplaced, unseemly thought or action she had every committed. It was not, however, entirely unkind.
She swallowed. "Captain Norrington." There didn't seem to be much else to say, but she weakly tried to respond with failing wits. "I'm dreadfully sorry, sir, I didn't see—"
"Entirely my fault, I'm sure. I had wished to speak with Miss Swann before the ceremony, but I'm afraid it will have to wait." He was smiling, a little self-deprecatingly. "Even if I hadn't run into you so... violently, there wouldn't have been time. I'll just have to wait. Take care of yourself, miss—?"
"Emily, sir. I'm maid to Miss Eliz—Miss Swann." The replied came automatically, if unevenly.
He re-examined her, no doubt finding her place as one of the background figures in whatever memory he might have of Elizabeth. "I see. Well then, take care of yourself here on, Miss Emily."
He returned the fan to Emily, wrapping her nerveless fingers about its length. Duty done, he turned to leave.
A pair of synapses connected in her brain, and triggered her mouth. "Wait!"
He turned back, an eyebrow raised.
"What were you going to speak with her about?" It would be her gossip instinct that was revived first.
A look of surprise interrupted the normal composure of his face. Her forwardness had somehow startled him into answering. "I meant to propose." A thought occurred to him, and dry humor tinged his next words. "But as eager as you seem to serve her, as I may judge from your enthusiastic retrieval of the trinket, I really must ask you not to relay the message to her. I'd rather make the attempt myself."
He left her standing with her mouth slightly agape, trying to put herself back together from the mental predations of jolting carriages and the humiliating encounter with one of her social betters. It was a moment before she had collected herself sufficiently to find and join Elizabeth, a moment before she would arrive at the governor's party only seconds before the ceremony began, and she could begin the wearisome work of fanning her corset-beset mistress.
In that moment, she wondered how much more stumbling she would do that day, and if she would ever manage to control herself long enough to be a proper British maid.