Disclaimer: Nichole d'Bouvoire is mine. I'm only borrowing everyone else. I'll give them back in good condition. Promise.
XI.
Misplaced Equilibrium
With her pistols loaded she went aboard.
And by her side hung a glittering sword,
In her belt two daggers; well armed for war
Was this female smuggler,
Was this female smuggler, who never feared a scar.
--"The Female Smuggler"
"Will Turner! Get yourself up here--now!"
Will looks up from the rope he's securing, alarmed. Anamaria holds her spyglass in one hand; the other hand is planted on her hip, and she does not look in the slightest degree pleased. He drops the rope and hurries up the steps to the helm.
"What is it?"
For answer, she shoves the glass at him and jabs a finger at the southeast horizon. "Have a look for yourself, why don't you."
Scanning the line where sea meets sky, he catches sight of the white gleam of sails in the morning sunlight.
"Oh, blast." He lowers the spyglass and looks in blank surprise at Ana. "They're still following us."
"Aye, so it seems," she says, dry-voiced. "And you'd best hope they don't catch up to us, Will Turner. Because I'll tell you right now, if it be a matter of choice for me between protectin' your sorry arse and protectin' the Pearl, I won't think twice afore I hand you over to 'em."
Elizabeth storms back into the room she shares--is forced to share--with Jack Sparrow, more vexed than ever that she must ruin the dramatic effect of her recent exit.
Jack eyes her from the bed, one eyebrow arching toward his headscarf. "Missed me already, did you?"
"Do you ever think of not speaking?" She scowls at him, wishing that looks could kill.
Jack places a hand over his heart and contrives to look aggrieved. "No need to get yourself all in a twist, love."
Irritated beyond reason, she snaps, "I am not in a 'twist', as you so vulgarly put it! And will you, if you please, stop calling me 'love.'" And stops herself; he's teasing her on purpose, she realizes, whether out of pure deviltry or for some other reason indeterminate. Resolving to ignore him, she hunts through her belongings for her comb. But her search soon proves fruitless, and she sits back on her heels, breath puffing out in frustration.
"Looking for this, dearie?" Jack inquires. She stiffens at his mocking tone, glancing round at him with all the dignity she can muster; he retrieves the object in question from beside the pillow and waves it at her, smirking. "You tried to take me eye out with it a minute or two ago, remember? Which, if I may say so, seems a bit counterproductive, seeing as how last night you were bound and determined to bandage me up. And pour rum on me. Unless you're looking to create an opportunity for a repeat performance--?"
"What makes you think I'd bandage you up this time?" she retorts, and snatches the comb from his tar-stained hand. "You seem to be doing your best to cause me to regret the first." Turning her back on him as before, she begins tearing through the knots in her hair with a vengeance that is not, in fact, meant for the unruly tangles themselves but rather for the man lounging on the bed behind her.
"My mistake," he mutters. "I'd thought you might be moved to a bit of human kindness...must have forgotten who I was dealing with, eh?"
"I think perhaps you must have," she says sharply. As if she hasn't done him any favors in the last twenty-four hours. Once again, she reminds herself not to rise to her bait; but once again, the task to which she instead applies herself becomes yet another source of increasing exasperation.
I should have plaited the damn stuff before...or just chopped it off...
She folds a long lock up, considering. Will loved her waist-length curls; but now, they seem little more than a hindrance and a liability to her. As if she doesn't have enough annoyances to deal with already. But to cut it short would seem so...irreversible.
Would it be so easy, so simple, to leave behind everything she has been?
What would she be, then?
For the moment, unprepared for such a weighty choice, she creates two thick braids with expert speed and coils them around her head, securing them with several pins: a small kind of order regained in the chaos she has made of her world. It steadies her, calms her; still, she can feel Jack watching her, and she flushes hotly all over again at the fresh memory of how he was looking at her when she woke. She'll have to rent another room for tonight; he may not have touched her this morning, but she doesn't trust what she saw lurking in those dark eyes.
And she's not entirely sure she trusts herself with him, either.
She hears him move and grunt in pain; the sound rouses her from her brief reverie, and she turns to find him struggling to sit up against the restrictive bandage and the stiffness of what she hopes is a healing wound.
"A little assistance here, Miss Swann?"
Mrs. Turner.
But for some reason she doesn't correct him; and although she contemplates letting him fend for himself, she sighs and instead goes to his side, placing a supporting arm behind his shoulders.
"Thanks very much..." He immediately swings his legs over the side of the bed and attempts to stand up, swaying alarmingly and far more than usual. Elizabeth hurriedly props him up.
"Ah...perhaps not quite as good an idea as I had supposed," he murmurs, before his knees buckle; his body crumples sideways abruptly, a dead weight in her arms. She barely prevents him from hitting his head hard on the floor as he falls.
Stupid. The man's lost far too much blood.
She kneels beside him, thinking that they've been here already, done this before, last night, when she begged him to wake up, when he seemed the only known quantity in a reality that had gone so rapidly askew.
Was that only last night? Everything seems so very different now. No going back.
Today, much to her unwilling relief, he comes round far more quickly, and squints up at her in confusion. "What--?"
She can't help but chuckle at his extreme bewilderment. "You just had another little fainting spell, that's all."
"Captain Jack Sparrow doesn't 'faint', love," he informs her. "I must have...misplaced my equilibrium. Momentarily, that is. Help me up."
She places a restraining hand on his arm. "Jack, you need to eat something. Build your blood back up. You can't go wandering around Tortuga until you do."
He looks at the hand, then back at her; she removes it with alacrity. "I'll go downstairs and get you some food," she says, resigned.
"How about some rum?"
"If you promise to lie down again and behave yourself this time, maybe."
He blinks at her. "I am lying down."
"Jack Sparrow, you are, without a doubt, the most infuriating man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing." She stands up, shoves her cap down over her forehead. "Stay there if you like, then. It doesn't make a difference to me."
He considers this, then reaches an arm up towards her in supplication. "Surely you wouldn't leave me here on this cold, hard floor, love."
"Oh! You're impossible." Dragging him back to his feet, she pushes him unceremoniously onto the bed. "And bloody heavy," she pants, when he has settled back on the lumpy pillow. "Now do me a favor, would you, and don't try anything else that foolish before I get back. I will leave you where you fall next time, as you would most decidedly deserve."
"Yes, m'lady," he says, giving her a demure look through those absurdly long lashes; then he grins suddenly, disarmingly. "Must say, if I didn't know better, darling, I might start believing you do care whether I live or die, after all."
She rolls her eyes, but a small smile tugs at her mouth despite herself. "A good thing we both know better, then, isn't it?"
"A very good thing," he agrees, gravely; then, as she turns to go, adds, "Oh, and Elizabeth?"
Setting her jaw, she gathers her patience. "What is it, Jack?"
"'Twould be a great pity if you chopped off all that pretty hair of yours. It suits you."
She stares at him for a moment, for once unable to come up with a suitable rejoinder, before she moves away with a shake of her head.
"Don't forget the rum," he calls after her cheerfully, as the door shuts behind her.
She makes her way downstairs to the kitchen, pursued by the awful suspicion that Jack is only pretending to be too weak to stand in order to keep her waiting on him hand and foot.
But by the time she returns bearing a tray of steaming food--including a bottle of grog for Captain Sparrow--she has realized that she, too, has not eaten for far too long. She and Jack break their fast together, although she spends most of the meal keeping a sharp eye on him to ensure that he consumes at least close to as much meat stew as he does alcohol. The balance, she decides in the end, is still steeply tipped in favor of the rum. But at least he has eaten something. And why, then, does she care whether he's nourished or not?
The sooner he's well, the sooner I can wash my hands of him.
She takes advantage of his alcohol-induced tranquility to change the dressing on his side; it has begun to bleed through, probably torn open in his ill-fated attempt to get up. He seems to have escaped infection, however. The wound looks clean enough, with only a little pink around the edges, and the skin does not exude the feverish heat with which she's all too familiar.
"Be careful," she orders him sternly, rising. "I don't want to have to do that any more than I have to, so please try not to rip it open again."
"You never told me where you were going," he objects.
"As if it's any business of yours! But if you must know, I would like to buy myself a blouse that doesn't stink of blood."
A small silence, then he says, in tones that, were he any other man, would have her believing his sincerity, "I am sorry about all this, love."
Because she wants to accept his apology and will not admit it, she huffs, "I've a name, you know. It's--" Mrs. Turner. "--Elizabeth," she finishes, and wonders why.
He opens his eyes wide, and raises a finger triumphantly. "When you learn to call me Captain, love, I will address you however you please."
"Well, Captain, I am going to take my leave of you now." She fixes him with a quelling glance. "Be good."
"Elizabeth, darling." Gold teeth flash. "I am always good." A protest whose effect is entirely ruined by the wink that accompanies the words, by which she knows he rather means the opposite. If Jack Sparrow is good, he can be good only at sinning; and she will not let herself consider how good he might be, at that.
Once she is quit of the "Faithful Bride" and her maddening patient, Elizabeth's steps lead her not to the shops but down to the bustling, redolent waterfront. Where she stands, at a loss, on the edge of the quay, her throat tightening with the onset of the dread she's been fighting since last night.
The Lady Swann is gone indeed.
And what did you expect?
So there's naught to do but wait for the Pearl, after all. Because even after looking straight into her eyes last night in the kitchen of the 'Bride', she knows Will Turner has no inkling that she is anywhere but safe in her happy little home, mending hems and gossiping with her 'peers.' And by now, wherever he has gone, he is undoubtedly very far away.
She turns her back on the ocean, and strides up the street to find the dressmaker's shop whose sign she saw on her way down to the shore; but when she reaches it, she stares irresolutely at its door for only a moment, before turning aside and crossing to the tailor instead. She smiles a little, then; in the past few days, she's gotten very used to walking unimpeded by yards of fabric or restrictive undergarments, and she enjoys it immensely. Her maids will certainly have a time of it trying to get her back into a corset for the next special occasion at Port Royal...when she finally returns.
If she ever returns...
She lingers among the shops for more time than may be entirely necessary, as yet disinclined to confront the...problem...awaiting her back at the inn, and equal parts appalled and intrigued by the boisterous, colorful anarchy of this pirates' city and its diverse populace. She sees hardly a clean-shaven male face among the townspeople, let alone a clean one; even those few men who seem more well-off and less desperate dress in flashy colors and carry themselves with a rakish bravado and a swagger that reminds her of no one more than Jack Sparrow himself.
Not a gentleman in the lot, only gentleman thieves...if there is such a thing.
She does note with interest the refreshing absence of the corset, and that hats, when worn, serve the practical purpose of sun protection rather than the aims of modesty or fashion. In fact, she's never seen so many bare female heads in her life. Numerous "ladies of the evening" wander through the streets freely, hair loose around their shoulders or haphazardly pinned back, talking and laughing loudly. Elizabeth soon finds herself unperturbed by the frequent solicitations that fly her way. She rejects the offers firmly but politely, with sympathy rather than disgust; these women do not depend on husband or family to support them, and she feels a strange, sneaking admiration for their self-sufficiency, their easy walk and bold manner, despite the weary emptiness she meets in their eyes. However, she does stare overlong at one tall, deep-voiced wench with an unmistakable Adam's apple, puzzling over what man would be fool enough to accept "her" favors.
The majority of the men...and several women...carry their weapons openly. These weapon-bearing women fascinate Elizabeth most. Like her, they dress in men's breeches and boots, but unlike her they seem unconcerned with concealing their femininity.
She has an opportunity to witness this outlandish attitude first-hand, soon enough; a fight starts up in the street when a particularly uncouth, very drunk man has the misfortune to roughly grab the arm of a petite red-headed lass with a cutlass at her belt. The woman disarms the low-life--who is easily twice her size--and leaves him writhing and groaning in the mud of the gutter in two lightning-fast moves.
The watching crowd cheers, Elizabeth among them; the girl bows gracefully, her smile sardonic, before she spits upon her hapless attacker's prone body and struts away.
"He's a damn fool, that one. Or new t' town, one or the other. And lucky; I've seen 'er kill men for less."
Elizabeth turns to the speaker, a weathered sailor whose blue eyes twinkle in bright contrast to the dirt and tar on his face. "Who was that girl?"
He peers at her, still shaking his head and chuckling with vast amusement. "Ye must be new as well, lad. Just about ev'rybody round about these parts knows Nichole d'Bouvoire."
"Is she a pirate?"
"Guess ye could call 'er that. There's many men call her many things...wild woman, Jezebel, criminal, Captain...aye, many things, an' I suppose pirate be one of 'em."
"Captain? She's got her own ship?"
"An' runs 'er right under the nose of the Spanish Crown, full o' rum...an' other booty, when it suits 'er." His expression becomes suspicious. "'Ere...why d'ye want t' know, anyway?"
"I've never seen a woman like her before," says Elizabeth simply.
The man nods. "Aye, fair enough. Ain't many women like 'er, son, an' that's the truth."
Jack leans in close to the mirror, deeply absorbed in an activity that can only be described as "primping"; he barely acknowledges Elizabeth's entrance.
"You're supposed to be resting."
He applies kohl to his eyelids with a practiced hand. "I'm feeling quite well, now, thanks. And I find bedrest...solitary bedrest, that is...to be very dull."
Perching on the end of the bed, she scrutinizes him; he is still very...shirtless...but there is something different about his personage. She frowns, and finally pinpoints the oddity.
"You didn't..." She stares in shock. "You did! You combed your hair." Combed, but not washed; perhaps that is too much to hope for. His dreadlocks remain, and he has re-secured them with the same filthy red handkerchief she's never seen him without.
"As I believe I mentioned...I was bored." He puts the finishing touches on his eyes and turns, posing theatrically for her benefit. "What do you think?"
"Terrifying." But not nearly as dreadful as the thought that suddenly occurs to her. "Did you use my comb?"
"Your--? Oh! Well, it was handy..."
She stalks past him and plucks it up from the side of the washbasin, holding it fastidiously between thumb and forefinger. The ivory teeth, once white, have acquired a grimy, oily sheen. "I suppose I can boil it," she mutters. "That should kill the lice."
"Lice? I must object. I do not have lice."
"Fleas, then," she says coolly; the offending object drops to the floor, a distasteful task for later. Gathering up her various packages, she tosses one to Jack, surprising him, though he catches it nonetheless. "I brought you a present."
His indignation vanishes. "A present? I love presents!" He turns the bundle over, examining it with childlike pleasure.
"Don't get too excited. It's only a shirt." She eyes him disapprovingly. "More of a present for me, really. If I have to look after you, I would prefer that you're properly clothed."
"Come, darling," he says, voice throaty. "I've seen the way you look at me. Admit it, you've been appreciatin' the scenery." He takes one step toward her, and then another, smirking; refusing to be intimidated, she meets and holds his gaze, but he continues advancing until just a few centimeters of empty space lie between them.
"I should slap you, Jack Sparrow," she whispers; she tries to retreat, to make the distance between their bodies safe again, only to discover that he has backed her up against the wall.
He looks down at her, considering, and she feels herself panicking under those relentless, nearly black eyes.
"Then why haven't you, I wonder?" The words are spoken very low, and his smile has suddenly changed from mocking to dangerous.
She fumbles for her belt where she has fastened her brand-new dagger, bought on impulse during her shopping expedition. But he is far too quick for her, catching her wrist tightly and blocking her range of motion with his other arm. "Now, love. That's not very nice..."
Elizabeth goes still. His gaze pins her as surely as his hand upon her wrist; she cannot look away. He seems to be searching her face, as if for the answer to some question that hangs unasked between them. Then, as abruptly as he cornered her, he releases her and moves away as if nothing has happened.
She wonders if he found whatever it was he was seeking, in her eyes.
Leaning back against the wall, her knees inexplicably weak, she wills her pounding heart to slow. Jack is now pacing the confines of the room, an activity that actually resembles something closer to an excessively restless, half-directed kind of wandering.
"Will you stop it," she snaps at him, when she's regained some of her composure.
He pauses by the window, looking fixedly out at a view which she knows consists of little more than the wall of the building behind the inn and a small bit of sky. "Can't help it, love. There is a reason why--given a choice, of course--I never spend more than a day or two landbound...savvy?" He turns back to her, and she thinks she catches a hint of desperation in his voice, though his expression is genial enough. "Come on, Elizabeth Turner, what say we take ourselves downstairs and have ourselves a drink or two this Sunday evening? Breathe in the sights, sounds and smells of Tortuga's finest den of infamy? Sounds tempting, does it not?"
"It sounds inexpressibly vile."
"Perfectly vile, darling, perfectly vile." He waves an expansive arm. "I'll even put on that shirt you bought me, and cover meself up all nice and proper. How does that strike your fancy?"
"That would be lovely," she says, icy. "But you can partake of Tortuga's bounty all on your own tonight, Captain. I endured it plenty and enough earlier today."
"Elizabeth. Darling. Please yourself, but do answer me this. Exactly what are you planning to do with yourself instead?"
She opens her mouth, closes it again.
"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "Really, m'dear, for a woman that jumps ship to escape a peaceful life in what I'm positive is a truly charming home, and especially for a woman I once saw leap without hesitation to battle with a troupe of skeletal miscreants who could not be killed, I find your sense of adventure...or lack thereof...sorely disappointing. I would have thought you less of a stick than your dear William, at the least."
That stings, and her head jerks up. "I am not a stick," she snaps. But still she hesitates.
Jack steps towards her again, this time without any intimation of menace, and offers his arm with surprising equanimity; the gesture seems so natural that Elizabeth must remind herself that he is not and never has been a gentleman. "Come, love. Honestly. You look like you could use a bit of rum..."
