Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

Historical Note: Because I research odd details, I have discovered that by most accounts, the custom of afternoon tea was not made popular in Colonial British society until the late 1700's or early 1800's; thus, its appearance in this story may be anachronistic. However, taking a cue from Disney, I feel I am justified in playing a bit fast and loose with historical accuracy to fit the needs of the story. They were, after all, fairly vague about what time period, exactly, the movie was set in. Clotted cream, by the way, is a very British condiment; apparently, it is very thick and rich, with a consistency somewhere between ice cream and butter.

Linguistic Note: I've done my best with Hattie's patois.
I seen him a'go stay-- "I knew he was going to stay."
Why you go 'long so?-- "What's the matter?" "Why are you behaving so?"
sweet you right-- "give you pleasure" or "treat you right."
Fire de a Mus-mus tail, him tink a cool breeze-- Literally, "set fire to a rat's tail, and he'll think it's a cool breeze." Refers to a foolish, unobservant, or oblivious person.

Author's Note 04/07/2005: Once again, I have added two "missing scenes" to this chapter, the thrust of which will likely be continued in Chapter 3. The pre-existing material has also been reworked fairly extensively.


II.
Ghosts

She, like an angel weeping,
on the rocks sighed every day,
awaiting for her own true love
returning home from sea.

"Our Ship She Lies in Harbour"


The silver has been shined within an inch of its life, and the scones emerge from the oven on time and perfectly done, a testament to Hattie's mastery. The tea goes round; the ladies chatter to each other about the latest fashions and speculate on when the doctor will be calling on the harbormaster's daughter, who was hastily married to a young sailor about seven months ago and has been "indisposed" ever since. Elizabeth heaps too much clotted cream upon her warm scone, swamping it. She pokes at the drowned pastry absently with her spoon, watching it break apart and disintegrate, and discovers she's not at all hungry. She hopes Hattie won't notice; the cook gets rather huffy when her offerings go uneaten, and Elizabeth has been offending her all too frequently lately, causing much stomping and pan-banging in the Turner kitchen.

Whatever would she do without Hattie? She herself couldn't make perfect scones if her life depended on it. But if what Will told her this morning was true, it might be best to let the servants go...

After a minute or two, she notices the sudden lull in the conversation around her, and realizes belatedly that someone has addressed her and is waiting for an answer. "Sorry?"

"Miss Edwards asked if you knew your house was haunted," prompts Mrs. Jane Wyndham dryly, reaching for the marmelade.

Elizabeth, still preoccupied by the puzzle of her husband's unexplained expenses, gives both ladies a bright social smile. "I am not aware of any hauntings, Miss Edwards. Do tell."

"Yes, please do!" Amelia Mullroy chimes in. "A ghost! My, isn't that thrilling?"

Miss Melba Edwards fixes Elizabeth with an owlish look. She is the milliner's sister, an older lady with a plump, jolly face and an astonishing hat. "You haven't seen her?"

"No indeed, I have not."

"Ghosts are nothing but a heathen superstition," declares Mrs. DuPont loudly. "You may just as well believe in voodoo curses and those spirits the natives are always on about. Even my dear husband can't seem to beat those devilish notions out of them, poor souls." Mr. DuPont is the new Protestant missionary to Jamaica, and his wife won't let anyone forget it. "Pure nonsense, of course, all of it."

Elizabeth, who knows better, laughs out loud at this, earning a disapproving glare from Mrs. Dupont. She turns to Miss Edwards, becoming interested in spite of herself; and perhaps, just a little, to spite the minister's wife. "So who is this ghostly lady?"

"A beautiful young woman," Miss Edwards announces, pleased to be the center of attention. "She paces back and forth on your widow's walk, Mrs. Turner, all dressed in white."

"She's waiting for her lover to come home from the sea," murmurs Mrs. Gage, dreamily. The others turn to her in surprise, for Mrs. Gage rarely speaks. The tiny, fine-boned woman's extraordinary coloring--black hair, caramel skin, and unearthly blue-green eyes—has spurred a rumor that she is in fact a mulatto, and that her mother was half-Negro; but she is the recent bride of a much-respected plantation owner, and thus the "society ladies" of Port Royal struggle to turn a collective blind eye on her dubious heritage. Blind eye notwithstanding, Mrs. Turner is the first and only wife to invite her to any social function. Elizabeth quite likes Mrs. Gage, and fancies that the lady in question has the air of one who has led a fascinating life, rumors or no rumors; she wishes she could ask her for the real story, but has not yet devised a way of doing so that seems less than inexcusably rude.

"She was a pirate's lady, or so they say," continues Mrs. Gage. "He set sail from the harbor many years ago, and she lit a lamp in her window and watched for him every night, in every weather. But he didn't come back. And one night she leaned too far over the railing, lost her balance, and fell to her death from the cliffs onto the rocks below."

The women shiver in unison, and Elizabeth shivers along with everyone else, forgetting for the moment that her own insomniac wanderings have lent weight to this particular legend.

"I heard she didn't fall," says Mrs. Catherine Dryer. "I heard she was pushed."

A chorus of gasps punctuates her statement.

"Y'see," Mrs. Dryer says, surveying her audience, "that poor maid was married. And not to no pirate, neither."

Young Mrs. Norrington's big brown eyes open wide. "You mean her husband...?"

Expressions of shock are displayed all around.

"Murthered her," says Mrs. Dryer, with what appears to be immense pleasure. "Died of harlotry, that one did."

"Mrs. Dryer!"

"Don't you look at me like that, Mrs. DuPont, you know well enough yerself that the judgment of the Lord is swift and just."

Elizabeth tries to not be horrified. "I wonder if her lover ever came back," she says softly, looking at Mrs. Gage, who smiles mysteriously.

"I think he must have," she says in that same tranced voice. "He sailed into the harbor the very next evening, and saw that the windows of the house were all dark, and he believed she loved him no longer. But as the ship drew near to the harbor, he saw a woman in white floating in the water. He dived in to save her, not realizing she was already dead...and it wasn't until he dragged her up on deck that he recognized his beloved."

Elizabeth shivers again, and Mrs. Gage shoots her a sharp, knowing glance; unnervingly observant for a woman apparently deep-sunk in reverie.

"What happened to him?" Elizabeth asks her.

"He went mad with grief, of course, and swore they'd never be apart again. So he tied her body to his, along with a piece of an old anchor, and drowned himself right out there in the bay."

"Oh!" Mrs. Mullroy exclaims. "How perfectly dreadful!"

"A most ungodly tale," sniffs Mrs. DuPont.

"That's love for you," says Mrs. Dryer.

"I'm surprised you haven't heard it before, Mrs. Turner," says Miss Edwards.

Mrs. Norrington has gone rather pale. "I thought such things only happened in fairy-stories."

Mrs. Gage smiles down at her tea-cup. "You're right. Much more terrible things happen in real life."


When tea is over at last and the other ladies are loading themselves into their carriages, Mrs. Gage pauses on the porch to favor Elizabeth with another indecipherable look.

"Who is it that you wait for?" she murmurs.

Elizabeth stands stock still. How does she know...?

"I too often find myself wakeful in the night," Mrs. Gage says quietly, as if in answer. "And I know a ghost when I see one...The woman on your balcony is no spirit. I thought you were waiting for your husband...but since he has returned, I see you walking there more than ever." The sea-colored eyes flash then, like bright sun off deep water. "How much longer do you plan to wait, my dear? Spent thus, a lifetime can be very long, you know; and youth is very short."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Elizabeth whispers.

"We all have our secrets, Mrs. Turner," says Mrs. Gage. And with that she smiles for the third time, and strides quickly down the verandah steps and away along the dusty road.

Elizabeth doesn't move for a while. Finally she turns around and goes inside and up the stairs, pursued by a clamorous flock of uneasy thoughts.

In their wake, too, she senses the glimmering of a strange idea, half-formed; an idea she hardly dares to articulate, but that resonates with the echo of Mrs. Gage's words.

How much longer do you plan to wait...?


The last rays of the rapidly sinking sun filter orangely through the balcony doors, pooling in Elizabeth's lap and on the polished floorboards at her feet. Head bent over Will's favorite shirt, she hurries to finish mending a long jagged tear in the sleeve before the light fades completely; with Will planning to sail so soon, she has more to do in less time than she expected, and sewing by flickering candlelight makes her head ache. He had attempted to mend the shirt himself while at sea, but his loose, haphazard stitches were half-unraveled by the time the Lady Swann dropped anchor in Port Royal, and unraveled almost completely once the shirt was washed. The fabric looks for all the world as if it were slashed by a blade, though by his telling his months away were supremely uneventful.

Downstairs, she hears the front door open and shut, followed by the muffled rumble of male voices: Will's, and her father's. She frowns in the direction of the landing, then mutters an oath as she drops a stitch.

"Elizabeth!" Will calls; he is on his way upstairs. "Elizabeth, we have a guest." Catching sight of her sitting silently there in the lengthening shadows, he halts in the doorway. "Elizabeth?"

He regards her warily, obviously waiting for her to throw her thimble at him, or a question he'd just as soon not answer; but his tone is hopeful. Hopeful that she's forgiven, or forgotten, their little row this morning. She sets his shirt carefully aside; folding her hands and straightening her back, she controls a wince with some difficulty. Sewing always leaves her with such a crick in her neck and shoulders.

"Yes...my husband?" she murmurs, and lowers her gaze to hide the anger that flares suddenly in her veins like lightning. And she has not been angry at him until now, not since he headed off her fury earlier with secrets only half revealed...

"Your father's here," he says. "I invited him to stay for supper." He sounds relieved, as though it's perfectly normal and natural for her to address him so meekly. "Why are you sitting in the dark?"

Dear Will. You still haven't learned the danger signs, have you? Even Father would know better.

"It is rather gloomy, isn't it?" she says brightly, allowing the spirit of Mrs. Amelia Mullroy to slip into her diction and her widened eyes. "I could have sworn it was light only a moment ago."

"I'll call Emmie in to light the tapers." He crosses the room to her, offering her his hand.

I am no invalid, damn it! I can stand up on my own, at least... But she smiles sweetly and accepts the hand. He links his arm with hers and says, "Shall we go down?"

"Yes, we mustn't keep Father waiting," she chirps.

Leading her down the big staircase, he says, low, "I'm glad you're feeling better."

This time she cannot help but stiffen, stopping short on the landing.

"Is something wrong?" Will asks; and, God save him, he appears honestly alarmed.

"You don't know--?" she hisses, but she is interrupted.

"Elizabeth, my dear!" Weatherby Swann exclaims jovially. "I do hope you don't mind me intruding on yourself and William for the evening."

Composing her face into a model of hospitality and good cheer, she disengages herself from Will and descends the remaining stairs on her own to greet her father with a quick embrace. "Of course you are not intruding, Father. You are always welcome here, you know that."

He twinkles at her. "Thank you, child. But when a man and wife have so little time to spend in one another's company, that time becomes very precious. I am certain your William wishes he could pass every waking hour of his shore holiday with you."

Elizabeth casts an arch glance in Will's direction; he has the grace to look ashamed. "Unfortunately, business takes up much of my time in Port Royal, sir. But we dine together every night," he amends hastily.

"So it would be a lovely change for us if you joined us this evening," Elizabeth adds, taking her father's arm.

"How are you, Elizabeth?" Governor Swann inquires, as she guides him into the sitting room. "I was concerned to hear you weren't feeling well this morning."

"I'm fine, Father, truly." So that is why he's here! She glares at her husband. "Will worries too much."

"I see." The Governor must have noticed the glare, for a tinge of anxiety creeps across his good-natured features. "Well, it is his duty to do so, my dear. You do look a bit peaked, you know."

"I keep telling her she should be more mindful of her health," says Will, with a hint of triumph.

Elizabeth looks from one to the other, and wonders how it is that she should feel so...caged...in the company of the two men she loves best in all the world.

"Excuse me," she manages to say. "I must go and tell Hattie to set another place at the table. Please make yourself comfortable, Father."

Having made her escape, she leans briefly against the foyer wall, taking a long, slow breath. Then the sitting room door opens again, and Will steps out into the hall.

"Elizabeth, whatever is the matter?"

"Nothing," she mutters, turning away from him. "Nothing whatsoever, Will..."

Nothing that you could understand, it seems.


The kitchen is fragrant with the aroma of frying taro and roast chicken. Upon Elizabeth's entrance, Hattie glances up from slicing mango and akee fruit at the wooden table to ask, "Wha' you needin', Missus 'Lizbeth?"

"I just wanted to warn you--we've a guest for supper tonight."

Hattie chuckles. "Don' you worry 'bout dat. When de Gov'nor coach come up de road, I seen him a'go stay. Dere be plenty enough for de table tonigh'." She bends down to open the big oven doors, releasing a rush of heated, bread-scented air. "Mus' be nice, eh, havin' your man a' home?"

"Yes, it's lovely," says Elizabeth absently. Then she sinks abruptly into the nearest chair, dropping her head into her hands.

"Bless you, missus," Hattie exclaims. "Why you go 'long so?"

"I don't know," she moans. "Hattie, I don't know what's wrong with me. Any good wife would be glad her husband is home and safe, and not..." No, she can't say that, not even to Hattie, shouldn't even think it. "And not ask any more of him," she finishes.

"Ah." Hattie nods wisely. "Him don' sweet you righ' no more, den?"

Elizabeth looks away. "It's not that, really," she mumbles, although Hattie's not entirely wrong. Will still touches her, but less fervently and less often than he once did. "It's more that, well, I don't believe he...sees me, when he looks at me. Truly sees me, I mean. It's almost as if we're strangers, sometimes." She stops, forces a laugh. "Listen to me...I think I'm talking a lot of nonsense, Hattie. Don't pay me any mind."

"Don' know 'bout dat," avers the cook. "Me Mam, she use a' say, fire de a Mus-mus tail, him tink a cool breeze."

Elizabeth puzzles over this cryptic pronouncement for a moment. "Mus-mus...?"

"It mean, him don' see wha' badness happen in his own yard, 'til it burn him." And Hattie adds bluntly, "It mean him a fool, Missus 'Lizbeth."