Gentlemen And Rakes

Chapter Four: Struck Down (Jack's PoV)

We were about fifteen, sixteen, Andrew and I, when the symptoms of the disease first began to manifest itself.

It didn't seem so serious, at first; all that happened was Andrew developing a slight disinclination for sunlight, but I just put it down to him fearing a tan, and so didn't think much of it. I don't think he was too concerned, either. Actually, we were slowly spending more and more of our free time debating how to repel the sudden plethora of wanton schoolboys attempting to bed Andrew.

No, seriously; I'm talking triple digits here. It wasn't that Andrew was particularly feminine in appearance—I couldn't help but notice how a surprising number of girls suddenly began twisting their hair and batting their lashes whenever he was within their vicinity, although he himself was likely unaware—it was that a surprising amount of our schoolmates were firm advocates of what was known as the "Italian vice". And, naturally, they were all attempting to rape Andrew, who although a middle-class misfit, was very pretty. They tried it on me a few times, but soon stopped after four or five lads were sent home to recover from various "accidents". And didn't return.

Besides, they all loved and admired me. They wouldn't dream of hurting me. Andrew, of course, was a different story…

But moving on: I remembered what had happened that caused Andrew to be sent back to his father: he'd fainted from sheer exhaustion. One minute, he was walking beside me along the cobbled streets of Winchester City—the next, he was lying flat down in the middle of the road, causing several fine carriages to swerve elegantly around his crumpled form. Completely taken aback at this unexpected reaction to a discussion concerning how best to unlace corsets, I immediately flagged down a coach and dragged him into it, ordering sharply to return to the school we'd both worked so hard to escape from.

The doctor that our schoolmaster had sent for was utterly useless: he'd suggested we leeched Andrew, for God's sake. He spoke of the vapours: that medical theory that stated that all internal illnesses were to do with an imbalance of the liver, usually, but other organs could be to blame, and how such imbalances can cause 'vapours' to rise and so affect the head and other areas of the body.

I'd never trusted the judgement of any man or woman who actually believed in the theory of the vapours. The parasite that was the doctor's recommendation was soon squashed beneath my foot, and I used all of my charm and wit to convince our schoolmaster to write home to Francis Wilson himself.

The father had arrived swiftly soon after, barrelling through the halls of the school, and all but broke down his son's door. I remembered how he sat by his son's bedside, his face pale and taut whilst his own personal physician conducted his own tests until early morning. Not really having anything better to do, and not at all in the mood for socialising or, God forbid, schoolwork, I waited patiently with them both.

All I received for my troubles were aching eyes, a stiff neck, and the pleasure of watching the two men exchange glances of fear every eighteen minutes. After hours of sheer boredom, I rested my eyes with every intention of falling asleep in my chair.

It was only then did anyone finally speak:

"Is it as I suspected?" Wilson asked anxiously, his brown eyes never once leaving his son's troubled face. I cracked one eye open ever so slightly, my interest peaked.

"Yes," the doctor confirmed, wiping his hands with a perfumed cloth. "I am afraid that your son has inherited the unfortunate Lady Wilson's disease." I knew very little about Andrew's mother; he had never so much as mentioned her, but from what I gathered from my mother's gossiping and backstabbing acquaintances, she was said to be a little… unstable, to say the least…

But since when was madness hereditary?

Francis Wilson's eyes had widened—he'd looked back at his son in fear—his very body began to tremble, and he slowly reached out to clasp his unconscious heir's hand.

"So what you're saying, Dr Stewart," he'd asked detachedly, "is that my son is dying?"

Another thing I'd picked up from my mother's reluctant tea parties—the only reason she'd held them at all were so she could laugh me to sleep with hilarious impersonations of them in the evening—was that Mrs Eleanor Wilson was still very much alive. They'd scoffed at her husband's complete devotion to her, saying it was all an obvious sham—for who could possibly be in love with a madwoman?

"Of course not," the good doctor said quickly. I assumed both men were still of the opinion that I was asleep in my chair. "Mr Wilson, with all due respect, sir, I think it best you remove your son from this institution immediately."

"And send him to a cell next to my wife's instead, yes?" The tone was surprisingly cold and clipped, yet the voice was tinged with despair and a paternal protectiveness which I'd personally had never experienced.

"No, sir," the doctor protested, "not at all. But the fact remains that young Master Wilson here should not be left in the care of schoolmasters and peers. My advice to you, sir, is that you remove the lad back to one of your country homes and there closely monitor his health. Have one of your younger sons' tutors complete his education, if that is your concern. But I highly discourage simply leaving him here, without a… specialist to watch over him."

"I don't wish to isolate him from society the way I had isolated Eleanor," Wilson put in sharply.

"And I myself strongly disagree with such drastic measures," Stewart replied. "But really, Mr Wilson, the best course of action would be to send your son back home."

Andrew wasn't in any shape to travel the next morning, or even the day after that. He was caught in a fever, drowning in delirium. The few times he did regain consciousness, it was only to start wildly and move as far from me—or anyone else—as possible. His green eyes gaped at me in fear and horror; he wasn't able to recognise anyone or anything around him—he couldn't even remember his own name.

"Why do you keep calling me Andrew!" he'd scream, thrashing madly on the bed. And when he wasn't throwing a fit, he'll simply lie there, eyes wide open but completely unseeing, as though dead.

I'd never seen anything like it in my life—it was first time an acquaintance of mine had actually forgotten about me.

Eventually, his father's patience wore away, and he'd simply bundled Andrew into a hired coach, threw in all of his belongings, and left.

It would have been quite amusing had the circumstances not been so serious.

I wrote him letters after that; it was the only way we could remain in touch. A month or so had passed before I'd received a reply—from his father, of all people. I believe it went something along the lines of:

John Raven Esq. (I always remembered that first line—only the children born of viscounts and lower were given the title of "the Honourable", indicated by "Hon." or "Esq." As a son of a marquis, I was entitled to the grander title of "Lord".)

As you know, my son is currently unwell. His condition hasn't much improved since when you'd last saw him; if anything, it has grown considerably worse. His health is deteriorating faster than his mother's had before him, although my wife is still, by some sheer miracle, alive. I'd known since his birth that he, and his brothers, for that matter, were at a risk of inheriting her own fatal illness; but I had never believed that the Lord would be so cruel as to strike down my favourite child first.

And on and on it went, describing in rather impressive detail (which I really could have done without) the chronology of his mother's malady, for several leaves, leaving me rather sickened at the end.

Rashes, unexplained chaps and cuts, an extreme sensitivity to light—these were but a few of the skin complaints that Lady Wilson had suffered from. Lethargy, melancholy, blood loss—just how much can one single disease do? Because practically every symptom of poor health was listed as being a likely ailment for Andrew.

And of course, the disease had uncalculated repercussions on his mental and emotional health.

A characteristic that had always struck me as a little odd in Andrew was how quickly he fell in love with a girl—he never ever pursued a female for his own pleasure. Andrew always chased after a girl if he was seriously considering a relationship with her—otherwise, he'll just leave her the hell alone. It was always amusing to watch his face after he'd had one drink too many and bedded a pretty whore that he didn't particularly wish to walk up the aisle: his instincts, as a man, were telling him to just get up and leave, whilst his more dominant gentlemanly reasoning insisted he compensate excessively for troubling her. That was probably another reason women were drawn to Andrew: his complete and utterly innocent sincerity and enthusiasm, sometimes so eager he appeared as though he had an ulterior motive. He didn't, of course: true gentlemen never do.

And if he behaved like this before this latest infirmity…

Just imagine being raised with the shadow of death hanging constantly over your door: your mother was a madwoman who could have unwittingly given you her disease, and as a result you'd known since the cradle that it's very unlikely you were able to live a long, full life. What if you that was what you wanted—a life, in every sense of the word? What if you wanted everything—a wife, a beautiful home, three or four children to strangle you to death every evening? I believe most men did actually yearn for such an idyllic life, or at least considered it—there were times when I personally found myself wondering what things would have been like had I taken the respectable path and settled down, although I don't think I would ever actually submit myself to such unnecessary torture.

But Andrew did want a stable family life, deep down. But he also knew it was very unlikely he'll make it pass the age of thirty-five, forty if he'd also inherited his mother's luck and strength. That's why he allowed himself to fall so romantically in love with every sweet girl he'd met, even as a teenager—he wanted everything, and he knew he had to have it now or not at all.

So you see, even though I don't always agree with his actions, his methods, or his beliefs, I did understand his motives, and I sympathised with him. Even now, after his betrayal, how he'd taken up Barbossa's arms, and I spent a worrying amount of my free time envisioning how best to extract his intestines and hang him with them as a result, a part of me understood why he did what he did, and pitied him in his plight.

Andrew was thirty-four now. His mother had died at forty-four: the absolute maximum he had left to live was ten years. But I still hated him for his little plotting with Barbossa: I was still hoping to shorten that time span considerably…

All I needed was one final motive.

-x!x-

AN: No, I did not make up Andrew's illness from thin air; the disease I was trying to describe is called porphyria. It's an illness that can be inherited from a parent—50 for boys, 25 for a girl—which was what I did in this story. One of the symptoms is paranoia, along with depression and other mental illnesses, which was why I chose it—I wanted Andrew's character to be clingy and needy but also jealous and violent, and this seemed to be the best way to write it in. It was the same disease that George III suffered from, so there's a little historical accuracy in there as well.

TigerTiger02: Aw, that's good to know the bird is OK. Question: how many little birds have you rescued? They all sound like very sweet little incidents… Glad you liked it; I knew that I enjoyed the idea of putting Andrew in a frock ;) You don't have to worry about me rushing to put up chapters for this story; I know exactly where I'm going, and if it takes a while for me to upload, it's simply because I can't seem to get round to writing it or get it to turn out right… One very quick note on the other fic: everything up until Chapter 16 was set pre-movie; now it's all set during, which means that yes, Barbosssa's still alive, and no, Jack doesn't have the Black Pearl… yet, anyway… But Sierra doesn't know anything about Barbossa or Will or Elizabeth; no noe tells her anything, so she's pretty clueless as to what's happening around her, and I'm trying to tell it from her point of view, and cause she does't know anything, it's all very random and doesn't appear to be connected, and that's how everybody gets confused… I love confusing people; it's a hobby…

cbs3: Well that's OK; if you don't want to read this, then you don't have to. The fact that you left several very nice long reviews on my other fic AND took the time to check this one out means a lot.

jennifer123: Yep, that is how Jack got his name. Still don't like Andrew, huh? I don't really care, but can you at least say that now you understand him?