Utmost apologies for this piece taking so very long: I'm afraid that I was distracted by both school and other projects, but mostly school. I was also was suffering from a bit of block with the plot. This isn't an entire chapter, by any means, but I will finish it promptly.
The remainder of the day passed with all the excitement and energy of a thirty-year old draft horse with gout. Fanning Elizabeth for what seemed like ages took a great deal of the diversion and interest from the fort guard's display. Far from her usual mild appreciation of the trim red and white uniforms and precisely executed maneuvers, Emily was infinitely relived when the ceremony finally ended with the presentations of Will's—no, the Commodore's—blade. She retreated tactfully when the newly appointed leader of the fleet approached her mistress, dutifully acknowledging the slight greeting tilt of Norrington's head in her own direction with a decorous curtsey.
Heaving a small sigh, she watched them walk away together in a slow promenade, and turned to find herself a patch of shade. The noon sun had slowly retreated from directly overhead during the course of the ceremony, and leaning against the stones of the fort wall, she could escape the worst of the Caribbean heat for a few minutes. From her vantage point, her eyes sought out Will's upright, broad-shouldered form almost completely out of habit. Try as she might, she couldn't see him among the few stragglers meandering around the courtyard, enjoying the view of the ocean as though they didn't get to see it every day. Emily liked the ocean as much as the next person—it was blue, sparkled, and blissfully cooler than the air—but it was just water, after all.
Resting her head against the rough sandstone of the wall, she reviewed her options for the rest of her day, and passed over visiting the smithy—Will might have gone to the tavern instead, and wouldn't that look silly—as well as daydreaming and watching clouds in the manor garden. The latter option was discarded as well, taking into due consideration both the likelihood of being drawn into some kind of extra chore by Charles, and her current morose mood, which wouldn't be much improved by a bout of brooding. With the idea of being cheered up with some lively gossip in mind, Emily decided that paying a visit to Monique would be the most pleasant way to spend the afternoon.
As events unraveled, the call turned out to be nearly the exact opposite. Monique's son was ill, and she asked the visiting Emily to help set up the stand and prepare the fresher cartload of vegetables for the market the next day, while she nursed the young boy. It was a dusty and uncomfortable task. Emily spent the afternoon clearing stems of withered greenery, washing dirt from the wares to make them more appealing, and arranging them in such a manner that they would be both well-displayed and safe from being squashed unpleasantly by their heavier companions.
By the day's end, she was quite miserable. Her once crisp dress was wrinkled and chafing, her hair was escaping its covering in sweaty straggles, and her back ached from lifting the weighty gourds, which had the double offense of being dreadfully opposed to any well-bred British palate, and could only really be purchased and supposedly enjoyed by the native people. The sunlight was beginning to fail—lamps were appearing here and there in the windows across the street from where she labored, mirroring the speckle of stars already to be seen in the darkening east—when Emily heard the last voice she wanted to hear under these conditions.
"Emily!" It was Will. Had she not been a properly raised young lady, she might have used one of the choice words more commonly heard at the docks.
She straightened quickly from where she was pulling a canvas over the vegetables to protect them from the night's dew, simultaneously trying to tuck her wayward hair behind her ears, if not entirely under her cap, and straighten her apron. Will was pacing back and forth, oblivious to her disheveled state and snapping with restless energy. She fought the urge to scowl.
"You've been here all afternoon, have you? Then you didn't hear—you wouldn't have heard—some ruffian took hold of Miss Swann, with the idea of using her as a hostage!" He paused in front of her, his distress at the idea evident in every line of his body. Emily sighed quietly over him. He had no idea of how transparent he was, with everything.
He threw her a reproachful look, taking offense at her lack of reaction. She quickly rallied her thoughts, bedraggled as they were after her trying day. "But she escaped, didn't she? Or I imagine Master Swann would have the entire town up in arms, not to mention every man at the disposal of Capt—sorry, Commodore Norrington and his navy."
"She did; well, he escaped, to be more accurate. He must have known that he had no chance, between Norrington and her father—they were both there—and he had some mad idea of hiding out in the smithy from them, and breaking his manacles there—it took the better half of an hour to calm down Betsy, poor creature." He had returned to pacing, seemingly mollified by her interest, although at intervals he would glance at her accusingly, as if it was her duty to protect her mistress.
Emily put the back of her hand to her forehead, trying to follow his spiel, lost somewhere between his mentions of manacles and Betsy, Master Brown's mule, an animal that the neighbors speculated was nearly as old as the smith himself. She made an effort, "And he was caught there?"
"Yes! And locked in the fort's prison, good riddance." He cast his eyes down, self-effacingly. "I helped, a bit. He got a hold of one of the blades…"
Summoning a look of admiration, Emily asked admiringly, "And you fought him? Oh, how thrilling Will!"
He nodded dismissively. "And then the Commodore arrived to take him away." For the first time, he seemed to actually look at her, and the result was disapproval. "Working on a Sunday?"
"Oh, this, it's just—just that Monique's youngest, Henri, he has the fever, and she's been so busy with him for the last few days, and she needed these ready for tomorrow." She tried not to wilt under his questioning look. "It's helping a neighbor, not working for a wage. It can't be that terrible."
Will's lips twitched, and his eyebrows went up. "You look terrible."
She stared at him, torn between wanting to keep him smiling at her, even if it was teasing, if only because he looked so good, and the urge to spit some uncouth words and throw one of the yellow, overripe gourds at his head, watch it splatter and leave him dripping with seeds and juice, and set that picture against him and no doubt his memories of Elizabeth looking so perfect and clean in her lovely new corset, and then see who looked terrible.
She folded grimy hands with chipped nails in front of her, demurely. "Why, thank you." Emily tried not to melt at his smile, and was rewarded by his offer to walk her up to the manor.
Of course, he only wanted the chance to see, and perhaps talk with Elizabeth, but she could dream.