Disclaimer: Nobody here belongs to me. I belong to Johnny Depp. Mind, body, and soul. He owns me. That is all.
Note: The Governor's sentiments about slavery and "colored" people are not, of course, my own and are intended to reflect the attitudes and beliefs of the period.


X.
Awakenings

A maid that is young,
a maid that is fair,
a maid that is kind and pleasant, oh
so early in the morning
the sailor loves the maiden, oh!
so early in the morning

--"The Sailor's Loves"


The Honorable Weatherby Swann, Governor of British Jamaica, hums cheerfully to himself as he mounts the steps to his daughter's house, prayer book tucked under his arm. Since Will is gone so often, father and daughter attend prayer meetings together in town every Sunday; Elizabeth often rides back with him afterwards to spend the day at the big white house on the hill, where she acts as the lady of the house, meeting with visiting dignitaries and serving tea to up-and-coming Navy officers. As always, he looks forward to this time with his daughter; all the more so this morn, for the recent storm has kept him housebound and restless these past two days and nights.

Today, however, the clouds have mostly broken up, aside from a few scudding wisps over the western ocean. It's a particularly lovely Sunday morning, in fact, and a pleasure to be out and about in it; the only hints of the recent weather--save the broken palm fronds, torn free by the high winds, that litter the roads--are the number of sailors hard at work in the harbor, repairing damaged ships and shattered docks. Fortunately, the Turner household appears to have escaped the storm relatively unscathed, though one of the mulatto houseboys is atop the roof replacing shingles lost to the gale.

"Mornin', Massa Swann!"

"Good morning...er..." The Governor struggles briefly to remember the boy's name, but fails. He has no idea how Elizabeth manages to keep them all straight; she pays almost too much mind to her staff, able to relate, at a moment's notice, not only their Christian and native names, but their personal histories, the ages and names of their children, and their relationship to servants in other houses. He's attempted to instill in her time and time again the principle that treating those people like equals will encourage all sorts of trouble in her household, warning her that given a meter such savages will take ten; they will cease to respect her authority and become disobedient, exploiting her excessive lenience. Every time he brings up the subject, however, she just laughs at him and pats his hand indulgently-- "Oh, Father. You're so old-fashioned. Have I had any problems with the servants yet? Do you see any tasks being neglected?" And then he is forced to admit that no, everything seems to be in perfect order, for a wonder.

He supposes that it is his fault, after all, for allowing that native woman the raising of her.

The maid who answers his brisk knock seems inexplicably frightened to see him.

"Governor Swann, sir..."

He steps into the foyer. No doubt Elizabeth has slept late, as is her habit; she will still be dressing in her chambers. "Run upstairs like a good girl, please, and tell your mistress the carriage is waiting."

"Sir..." She wrings her hands, dropping several nervous curtsies.

"What is the matter, child?" A distressing thought occurs to him. "Is Elizabeth sick again? Why have I not been told?"

"No, it's not that, sir...it's...well..."

"What?" he demands, exasperated. "Speak up, girl, and stop that stammering. Where is my daughter?"

"I'm afraid Mistress Turner is not at home, Your Grace." Jamison, the tall colored butler, appears noiselessly behind the servant woman. Governor Swann starts and stares at him. He can never get used to how silently the man moves; it's unnatural, as is the fact that he speaks with the cultured accent of a British gentleman.

"What do you mean, not at home? Where has she gone? It's Sunday, for God's sake!" He finds he is shouting, and controls himself with an effort. "Tell me what in heaven's name this is all about, Jamison."

The butler places a comforting hand on the shoulder of the servant girl, who is now weeping quietly into her apron. "Did you not know, my lord? Mistress Turner elected to sail with her husband on board the Lady Swann. She departed several days ago."

"I--I don't believe it," he sputters. "She did what--? Why? No, of course I didn't know! I should have been told--too dangerous--what put such an idea in her head?"

"Difficult to say, my lord." Jamison pulls an envelope from his waistcoat pocket. "She did leave you this letter, sir. She did not wish you to worry."

"Did not wish me to worry!" The Governor turns the envelope over, examining it distractedly. "She has no idea what she's done...the risk she's taken..."

"I am very sorry, sir."

"Not your fault, Jamison. Not your fault at all." He shakes his head mournfully and sinks into one of the fancy embroidered chairs. "Oh, Elizabeth...I had such hopes that she'd grown out of this sort of nonsense...I rather thought marriage would do the trick...and now this...!"

He opens the envelope and removes the single sheet with a trembling hand, fumbling in his pocket for his spectacles. At the sight of Elizabeth's graceful, sloping script, his chest contracts painfully. Her handwriting is so very like her mother's...

How could she do this to him? She knows his heart has weakened over the years. A shock like this could kill him. And Will Turner...he knows better, as well. He's been warned about this kind of thing. Especially now, with the additional responsibilities the lad has taken on for the Crown. That ship is no place for a woman, let alone Weatherby's only daughter.

Her message is short and characteristically unequivocal; he reads it with a growing sense of dread.

Dearest Papa,

I hope this letter finds you well, and I am sorry for any grief it may cause you, for that is not its intent. I pray that you will try to understand my motives in writing it.

As I am sure Jamison has now informed you, I have decided it is time for me to do a little traveling myself. To these ends, I have secured a place on my namesake vessel; I expect to be away for some time. I beg of you, do not blame Will for allowing me to do this, as he does not know of my plan, and, if all goes as arranged, will not discover said plan until it is far too late to prevent its fulfillment.

Please try to understand why I must do this, dear Father, though I fear you may find it difficult. You see, I cannot bear to spend the rest of my days in one place only, as it seems both you and my beloved husband wish me to do. I have long been fully recovered from the fever that interrupted my last journey, and since then I have felt more and more every day as if I were a prisoner in my own home and in my own life. I crave freedom, Father, and it pains me that in seeking it I must deceive both of the men I love most in all the world.

I ask you not to be over-harsh with Mr. Wallace, who has agreed to look after the household, as well as the accounts, while I am gone. His loyalty to you should not be questioned; he is a very nice young gentleman, and should not be punished for falling prey to my shameless manipulations.

I promise I shall return with the 'Lady Swann' when she sails from Honduras, which should be well before Christmas. Please forgive me, Father, and please do not worry over me. I do know how to look after myself, and I wish with all my heart that you would trust me to do so.

All my love,

Elizabeth.

He folds and refolds the single sheet of paper, mind racing. The 'Lady Swann' must be intercepted, before the ship reaches her destination. Surely if Elizabeth understands the danger she's unwittingly placed herself in, she'll see reason and come quietly back to Port Royal...

Stuffing the letter in his pocket, he hastily thanks the servants and races out the door; he will have to skip the meeting this morning. Instead, he orders the coachman to take him down to the fort.

Commodore Norrington will help him to straighten this out.

The Commodore's been married for a year, but Weatherby Swann isn't blind. He sees the way Norrington still looks at his daughter. Of course the man is far too well-bred to ever mention his unrequited affection for Elizabeth, but mention her name and he'll be on his feet, ready to do whatever it takes to save her.

Even if, in this case, they must save her from herself.


Jack Sparrow becomes gradually aware of something tickling his nose: something fine and feathery, that smells faintly of soap and rosewater. Still half-asleep, he bats at it--ineffectually, for there seems to be quite a lot of the stuff.

Then his outflung hand comes in contact with something warm and soft.

He jerks back as if stung; opens his eyes cautiously. And freezes.

"Well, well," he murmurs. "That's interesting."

Elizabeth Swann--Turner, he reminds himself absently--lies curled up kittenlike on the bed next to him, her back to him, hair spread around her in waves of tarnished gold that catch and magnify the rays of sunlight filtering through the little window, until she could be imagined almost to glow with some clear inner radiance of her own.

"That's very interesting..."

He reaches out tentative fingers toward the luminous strands, then pulls away reflexively as she stirs in her sleep and mumbles something incomprehensible.

"Sorry, love...didn't quite catch that."

At his words, she rolls over without waking, trapping his arm beneath her body, head nestling into the hollow of his shoulder; a slender hand settles itself rather possessively on his bare chest. Bemused, he draws his head back gingerly, out of the way of the encroaching tumble of hair, and regards her sleeping form.

She makes a soft, contented noise, pressing closer to his side. He watches, increasingly disconcerted, as one long leg slides over his, her knee coming to rest between his thighs.

Bloody hell.

She is still dressed in the simple cotton shirt and breeches of her disguise, and though her breasts remain tightly bound in a regrettable attempt to conceal her sex, he can feel every contour of her body against his; the heat of her floods through his veins like lightning, like an entire bottle of rum drunk far too fast.

Careful, mate. This treasure's not yours for the taking...

He swallows, desperately struggling to maintain some small vestige of control, unable to suppress the thought that it would be all too easy to reach across and slip his free hand beneath the shirt's untucked hem. His fingers flex atop the mattress as he imagines the silky warmth of her skin under them, imagines her pliant body responding to his touch..

The voice of self-preservation comes to his rescue.

More like she rouses and shoves that knee of hers right up into your crotch.

He glances down and decides that the safest place for his hand is, in fact, just there--protectively situated between his privates and the very real danger that menaces them. With a sense of helplessness, he wonders if it would be wiser to disentwine himself from her and risk her misunderstanding his intentions as less than honorable, or to lie still and wait for her to wake on her own while his intentions...and other things...grow inevitably more dishonorable by the second. But he's not even nearly finished weighing his options when she resolves the issue for him.


Elizabeth opens her eyes, and finds herself staring directly into Jack's dark, unreadable gaze, his face only a few centimeters from her own.

Horrified, she jumps up so fast she nearly falls.

I knew it was a mistake to fall asleep there...I only meant to close my eyes for a moment....

He's rolled onto his back, looking her over lazily, an insolent smile playing over his disreputable features.

"Come, now, darling, what's your hurry?"

"Just what the hell were you doing, Jack?" Her voice is rendered indistinct by fury and embarrassment.

He stretches, elaborately unconcerned. "I did nothing unseemly, love. It was you who cozied up to me...very sweetly, I might add." One eyebrow lifts suggestively. "Indeed, you're quite a different woman altogether when you're asleep...immeasurably more agreeable, if you don't mind me saying so..."

"Oh, but I do mind!"

He reacts only just quickly enough to catch the empty flask she flings at him, though he winces a little; the instinctive movement probably required the use of his wounded side muscles, and she allows herself a fraction of vindictive pleasure at the thought.

"Your honor," he growls, "remains unimpugned, m'lady. I suffered the sleepy caresses of your eager little hands and didn't even cop meself a single feel...savvy? Which, I daresay, is far more than you should rightly expect from any unsuspecting gentleman, rubbing up against him as you did to me."

She glowers at him, inarticulate, cheeks shamefully ablaze. "You...bloody...pirate!"

"The only pirate that has ever failed to take advantage of such a tempting opportunity...and likely the only one that ever will, love." The incorrigible, infuriating grin returns. "Ah, Will Turner...if you only knew what I've done for you today, mate..."

This time, he's not prepared as Elizabeth's comb flies precipitously at his head.

"Ouch!"

She snatches up her stained jacket and stalks to the door, chin high.

"That was highly unnecessary, don't you think? ...Oi! Where are you going?"

She turns in the doorway and fixes him with her most deadly glare.

"I am going out," she announces haughtily. "And you, Captain Jack Sparrow, are going to stay right...where...you...are. On pain," she adds, "of death. 'Savvy?'"

"Aye, savvy," she hears him grumble, behind her; then, "Here! That's my word, Lizzie-girl--"

Elizabeth lets the door slam shut, cutting off the rest of his protest, the action and sound (and consequent lack thereof) immensely satisfying. Until, about two steps into the hall, she realizes she's forgotten something. She lifts her hands to the hair cascading messily around her shoulders, and glares daggers at the bleary-eyed and unshaven fellow inn-mate who's leering at her from the doorway of an adjacent room.

"Oh, bloody hell!"