Disclaimer: Once a possession of Disney, always a possession of Disney. I just play here.
A/N 02/05/05: For anybody rereading, this chapter has an added scene. Let me know what you think.
I.
The Turning Tide
"Fare you well, lovely Molly, I'm going to leave you
and to the East Indies my course I will steer
don't let my long absence be a bother to you, dear
for we will be married, you need never fear."
"Like some jolly young seaman I'll dress and go with you
in the midst of all danger I'll stand as your friend
those cold wintry winds, love, around you be blowing
And I will be there for to wait on you then."
"Those little white hands, love, could not stand a rough tackling
those pretty white feet to the top could not go
those cold wintry winds you could not endure them
so stay at home, darling, to the seas do not go."
"Lovely Molly"
Elizabeth sits at her armoire, bullying her hair into one of the elaborately constructed styles that have become popular this season, and that she hates so very, very much.
Unfortunately it is considered unacceptable for married women to let their hair loose about their shoulders in public, and the estimable ladies of Port Royal are calling on the governor's daughter this afternoon for an early tea. Elizabeth thinks she'd rather walk the plank over a sea full of hungry sharks than spend her afternoon entertaining that gossipping, petty, unbelievably dull flock of women.
She shoves a pin viciously through her thick braid, jabbing it into her scalp with such force that her eyes water.
"Bloody hell!"
"Good morning to you, too, darling," Will says from behind her. He places his hands on her shoulders, leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek. He's dressed in his finest jacket today, and his rakish hat sports one of those ridiculously large white plumes that he favors.
"And where are you off to so early?" she demands, aware that her tone holds a great deal more asperity than she can entirely justify.
"I must go down to the harbor and see that the Lady Swann is properly outfitted. We sail the morning after next, you know."
She stares at him in the mirror as he adjusts his feather. "Already? You've only been home a fortnight, if that."
"I know, darling. But you know what they say." He's buckling on his sword belt now, and she wonders how long it's been since the gorgeous weapon has left its sheath. He forged the blade himself before the affair of the Black Pearl, but he's hardly the foolhardy swashbuckler these days. He only looks the part. She sometimes considers asking him if he misses the smithy; he gave up his craft after their wedding in favor of the shipping business, telling her he could never give her the life she deserved if he remained a blacksmith.
"What do they say?" she asks instead, opting for conversation by rote in lieu of questions to which she's not sure she wants the answers.
"Time, tide, and commerce wait for no man."
She grimaces. "You sound like my father. An epigram for every occasion."
"Do I?" He's pulling on his good boots; his glance at her is faintly amused. "Is that really so terrible?"
She just shakes her head. She loves her father, but he has an original thought about once a year. She thought Will had more imagination. We're becoming boring, she realizes suddenly, with something close to panic. At this rate I'll soon be an aging, sour-faced matron, and Will a foppish husband who thinks only in pounds and shillings.
He rises, returns to her side to drop another quick kiss on the top of her head. "Must go. Give the ladies my respect."
He's nearly at the door when she catches up to him. "Will!"
"What?" She almost bowls into him; he grasps her upper arms to steady her, looking alarmed. "What is it?"
"Take me with you," she cries, breathless.
"To the harbor?"
"No!" Exasperated, she glares at him. "Don't be an idiot. Tomorrow. When you sail for Barbados."
He doesn't have to say it; she can reads the answer in his closed expression. "Elizabeth, I just don't think that's a good idea."
"I think it's a bloody brilliant idea! I want to get away, that's all. Is that so much to ask? I'm sick to death of this sodding island...this bloody sodding house...this bloody sodding life--!"
He winces. "I wish you wouldn't swear so, darling."
"For God's sake, Will!" She bites back a scream of frustration. "Don't you understand? I have nought to do here but sit and sew lace on petticoats and embroider cushions and order the servants around. There is nothing for me in Jamaica when you are asea, Will, and I hate it. Hate it."
He looks at her like she's just sprouted a pair of horns. "Are you ill?"
"No!" she shouts, eliciting another pained flinch. Drawing a deep breath, she wills herself to speak slowly and evenly. "I am quite well and have been so for a long time now. I am no weak, wilting female, have you forgotten everything you ever knew about me, Will Turner? Do you even remember the girl you named your blasted ship after?" Her voice rises again, breaks just a little; she stops short, quelling the tears that threaten to betray her. She refuses to act the part of the weeping, helpless creature he would make of her.
"We named the ship after your mother," he says, pedantically. "Are you sure you're feeling well? You've been too flushed all morning." He frowns. "And you've circles under your eyes. What if you were to catch another fever? You should rest."
"I am not ill," she says through clenched teeth. "It's the heat. And the boredom. Will, this place is driving me mad! I have convalesced in excess. It's been two years since that thrice-damned fever, and you still treat me as some delicate hothouse flower that might wither away if you move me to the wrong climate. Two years, Will! I was sick two years ago."
"You almost died two years ago." His voice vibrates with quiet tension.
"So did you! The entire crew was on death's door! And some of them did die! I survived. Do you think me weak for that?"
"That is not the point," he says, impatient. "Elizabeth, the ports I sail to these days are not as safe nor as civilized as Port Royal. I do not mean to keep you prisoner, but I will not endanger your life so recklessly. Besides, I promised the Governor--" He halts abruptly, dismay plain on his face.
"What?" He doesn't answer. "Will! What do you mean? What did you promise?"
Looking massively uncomfortable, he says, "Your father told me, in no uncertain terms, that if I let you sail anywhere out of the Colony islands again, he'd take his ships back." He avoids her eyes. "So I told him I would do no such thing..."
"I don't understand," Elizabeth says. "Those are your ships."
"Not technically," and the words carry an intense weariness. "I have not repaid to him the value of even one of the vessels."
"But I thought business was good!"
"Yes, business is fair enough. But this house took paying for, and the servants must have their wages. The ships themselves require care, and every man aboard receives their livelihood before I account for mine. And there are...other expenses." This accounting seems to pain him. "All in all," he continues heavily, "I currently own less than half of the Lady Swann, and not a sail nor rope nor plank of the Freedom. They are only mine to use until I make a mistake. And if I lose the ships, we lose everything." He meets her shocked gaze at last. "I don't want to lose you into the bargain."
She stares at him, speechless.
"Now, my dear," he says, putting her away from him gently but firmly, "you have made me late. I will dine with you tonight. Perhaps by then you will have regained your reason, and will understand that I do what I must."
He turns on his heel, setting her adrift there in the doorway, still trying to gather her scattered thoughts into a response or an apology. Trying to decide whether he merits an apology after reprimanding her as if she was a child, and a spoiled, somewhat slow child at that. As if he has no hope she'll ever understand or know better.
That condescension, and the detached formality with which he bid her goodbye, reminds her...rather more than she cares to consider...of the man she might have married rather than the one she did. She would expect James Norrington to address her so dispassionately, even coldly...but never William Turner. That was one of the reasons she chose Will, wasn't it? Didn't she fall in love with that, with the bright, impetuous fire in him? Once, she saw herself in that fire; believed they shared it...
When did he become so...dutiful?
When did she become just another obligation?
She moves slowly back into the room and sinks onto the bed. The last vestiges of anger have drained out of her, leaving her mind limp and blankly grey. So she was just another stranded lady of Port Royal after all, like the rest of the tiresome wives probably on the march already to invade her drawing room; doomed to die a dull, spiritless woman in the same place as she'd lived most of her life.
And Will! Poor Will. The way he wilted as he admitted his debt, his words defensive, voice brittle with failure. The way his shoulders slumped, weighted by the burden of his promises.
We are neither of us happy as we ought to be, it seems...
She stirs, and catches sight of her own image in the looking-glass. Suddenly she sees herself, all too clearly, as Will must see her: the bruise-like impact of too many sleepless nights around too-brilliant eyes, the heat of the argument still flaming wildly in her cheeks, unruly wisps of hair already escaping from a confusion of unevenly placed hairpins. She has to admit she does look a bit feverish. Almost desperate...
Sighing, she tucks errant strands of hair behind her ears, gets to her feet. The hour is growing late, and she must finish her toilette and go downstairs to make sure Hattie has started making the scones, to see that Emmeline has shined the silver to an acceptable brilliance. To keep up appearances. She tries her best to avoid giving Port Royal more grist for the gossip mill, for she too has an obligation to her father; and though he would never be tactless enough to say it, she has done enough damage to the Swann family's reputation by her choice in husbands.
Not until she reaches the landing does it occur to her to wonder what might constitute Will Turner's "other expenses."
It's a lovely morning on the southwest coast of Jamaica. Though the blazing Caribbean sun has climbed nearly to its apex, a brisk nor'easterly breeze keeps the day from gathering too much heat; the far-off horizon shimmers in the limpid air, a fine blue line at the meeting of sea and sky.
But Captain Will Turner barely notices any of this. He's witnessed such mornings many times before, and in any event is in no mood for breezes or horizons. His anger propels him headlong out his front door and several hundred feet down the carriage-road towards Port Royal before his steps slow to a more measured pace.
He draws a deep breath then, and glances back at the clean white gables of the house on the cliff. Even from this distance, it looks very grand and large to him. Too large. When he stays there, his footsteps echo too loudly under its high ceilings, while his voice sounds tinny and small to his ears. The London urchin turned blacksmith's apprentice in him will never grow used to living with so much...space. But to Elizabeth, their sprawling house must seem a very humble mansion indeed...
No wonder she feels trapped there, he thinks miserably. It's certainly no Governor's estate.
But she cannot truly prefer sailor's quarters to the comforts of home. She must have forgotten the less-than-thrilling aspects of life aboard ship. The drudgery of long weeks at sea, nothing to be seen but waves and sky, sun and stars, nothing to be done but hard labor under a merciless sun. The hungry looks she would receive from lonely sailors, who whether good men or no could not help but notice the presence and shape of a woman among them, and think on it. The smell of unwashed bodies when fresh water must be saved for drinking, not wasted on bathing. The rancid taste all foodstuffs acquire, no matter how carefully preserved, after a month or so of barrel-storage in the thick dank humidity below-decks.
No, she cannot possibly crave that life, he decides. And if she does, he cannot provide it for her. Not just out of fear for her health or for her safety; although those are also very real worries, for she has never quite regained the strength she had before her fever...
He frowns. He hates lying to her. But he has sworn to leave her out of it, and besides, he's let the charade go on too long; it will be much worse for both of them if he tells her now, after two years. She took the half-truth poorly enough already. Even if she were to understand his choice, she might never understand or forgive his deception...
She still believes he's a merchant sailor, and an honest man.
He cannot imagine her reaction should she discover the truth.
