Author's Note: I'm back! Sorry for the delay, but I am afraid sometimes fanfiction must fall to the side as real life takes hold. Still, I thank you all for your patience. Also thanks goes out to all my wonderful reviewers Dancing en Pointe, Jousting Elf with a Sabre, Elfluver13, Smithy, Jackeroe, teela1978, and Rosalyn Lavoisier. Your support and encouragement is greatly appreciated. And of course, thanks goes out to my beta, Mystress of the Dark for her help with this chapter. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean of its characters.
Chapter Seven Foolishly Optimistic
It had been two days. He knew it not by any normal sense of time but in the way the water stretched out endlessly before him, the way the sun glinted on the waves and the way the moon smiled at night. Two days and still no sign of her. The first night aboard the Dauntless had been bearable, Norrington decided. His hope was young then and the thought of vengeance a strengthening elixir. But with the dawn of the second day he felt his faith wane and his limbs begin to ache with a growing weakness. What if he never found her?
Norrington's thoughts were with his children when not preoccupied with his wife. To grow up without a mother was a terrible thing and a pain one never escaped upon reaching adulthood. A pain he knew. He recalled when his own father had tried to explain why his mother was no longer there. Words like "influenza" and "death" are foreign to children and mask the dire circumstances they express. Norrington feared ever having to whisper such to his Nelly and Little James.
The Dauntless glided upon the silky waters, gentle waves caressed her hull. There was a time when he could take comfort in such a simple pleasure as smooth sailing. But not now. He only prayed the sea would deliver him quickly to that dratted ship of Sparrow's.
"James?" The informal tone shocked Norrington out of his thoughts.
"Lieutenant?"
Gillette approached his commander easily, always one to master the grace of his French forefathers. Beads of light from the dying sun trickled across the deck and washed over his pale face. "The horizon is bare, sir."
The reminder poked at the Commodore like a brand against wounded flesh. "Unfortunately so."
"But that is not what I came to talk to you about."
"Forgive me for my rudeness Lieutenant, but my mood is sour and a discussion is not to my liking."
Gillette watched him for a moment with hazy eyes like Nelly's. Fairy eyes, Emer would have said. "Not to disturb you then sir, but it is worth noting." He paused and scratched his neck where the rough horsehair wig brushed his tender skin. "Sparrow could not have pulled this off without some manner of help."
"Help?" Norrington raised his eyes slightly to study the younger man's countenance.
"How would he have known otherwise, sir, that Mrs. Norrington was your wife? How would he have known of her movements? Where she would be and when."
"And by that you mean?"
"A person, perhaps in Port Royal could have informed him."
"The Turners." Norrington felt the name fall heavily from his tongue.
Gillette's face flushed and he tapped his feet along the wooden planks of the deck. He had never fully forgiven Will Turner for stealing the Dauntless and then the Interceptor right out from under him. "I did not mean…"
"I know what you meant Lieutenant and I see no wrong in your thoughts, as long as they don't turn to accusations," Norrington said.
"No, not at all. Perhaps it was too harsh of me."
"It is a thought worth mentioning," the Commodore allowed. "And it may be worth investigating."
The Lieutenant's eyebrows shot upwards. "Truly sir."
Norrington studied the wood grains that shaped fine patterns along the ship's railing. It pained him to even think that the Turners would do such a thing. But then again, Will was no timid blacksmith. The blood of a notorious pirate flowed in his veins, embedded with instinct and the knowledge of a scoundrel. It would only make sense that…
"Mistress Turner would never endanger Emer's life," he said. "And how could I even accuse the Governor's daughter of such a crime?"
"Forgive me sir, I meant no offense. But if she did not know about it…"
"There is no reason to discuss the matter now," Norrington interrupted him. "Though an inquiry, perhaps on our return to Port Royal, should be made."
The sun was halfway below the horizon, casting forth crimson rays upon the ever shifting waters.
"Sparrow cannot be that far out to sea," Gillette commented. The eerie stillness tore at him.
"The Pearl is a fast ship," Norrington admitted. "It is unfortunate that we departed a day late."
"Still so guilty, James?"
Again, his subordinate's informal tone shocked him. Even though the two had established a strong friendship as comrades in arms, Gillette never addressed him so freely aboard ship.
"Guilty?"
"Yes, the same guilt you felt on your wedding day when you married that girl to satisfy the pangs of your broken heart."
Norrington did not know whether to feel angry or abashed. He settled for tightlipped silence.
"She loves you, has loved you since that day."
"I know," Norrington growled, unable to contain himself. "And I mind it every day, with every caring glance she bestows upon me. Do you think me so wicked as not to care for her in return?"
Now it was Gillette's turn to be quiet. He mulled over his thoughts carefully before finding the right words. To provoke his commander's anger at such a time was unwise.
"Mrs. Norrington often spoke of Irish superstitions," he said finally. "Everything had a reason for happening. Perhaps, this is one such occasion. It might change things for the better."
The Commodore stared at him. "You never struck me as foolishly optimistic, Lieutenant."
Gillette turned away with a sigh. "One of us has to be."
It had been two days. Emer knew it not from the looks she received from the bedraggled crew but from the way her desperate hope had turned to anger and then to grief. She thought herself a horrid mother. For what maternal woman would abandon her own children for a foolish game? Searching the horizon for hours on end had lost its luster. Now she observed the pirates moving about the ship, a distraction if nothing else. They had treated her kindly, especially Gibbs. Jack had become a distant figure as he held a vigil by the helm with his compass. Anamaria continued her duty of seeing her to meals, though she performed the task curtly and without a smile.
On the third morning mist hung about the masts and tangled in the sails. For once Emer felt reluctant to leave the top deck. The stormy weather brought to mind the fields of Ireland. Gray and green, the colors of a land where saints had trod on the heathen roads and the moss that clung to the standing stones echoed with the pulse of a forgotten drumbeat. She had been smitten as child, lost to the love of the moors swimming with heather and the blast of frigid wind that rumbled through the valleys even in August. But the Caribbean had brought her a new love, her James. And as a fickle hearted woman she cast away her homeland for the tropics, with its sultry air and white sands. Yet in the deep hours of the night, when the endless lapping of the waves disturbed her sleep, Emer wished for Ireland
"Aye, aren't ye coming?" Anamaria stood just far enough away as to not seem interested in her charge's business.
"Yes." The Irishwoman withheld a sigh and tore her eyes from the gossamer traces of mist. Rain had begun to splatter along the deck. Mr. Cotton's parrot took shelter under a coil of rope while the crewmen scurried about, undaunted by the change in the weather.
"No good for ye to be starin' out at the sea like that," Anamaria mumbled as she led the way down the stairs. "Make ye lovesick."
"I already am." The musty smell of the galley soon assaulted Emer's senses. Her stomach had settled some since her first day on the ship though the food she was presented with did not appear at all enticing.
A small wooden table sat in the middle of the galley. Its sides were well scuffed having been knocked against the wall more than once in a storm. The chairs were in a similar state of disrepair, missing arms and wobbling uneasily when sat upon.
The pirate fetched a grimy bowl and ladled a small helping of what looked like porridge into it. Gruel, Emer thought. She had seen the peasants on her father's estate eating it when she rode by on her pony.
Her gaze found the dark beauty's face, still twisted with annoyance. The rest of the crew had become acquainted with her, all except this woman.
"You don't trust me?"
"Not as far as I could throw ye, lady." Anamaria thrust the bowl on the table and threw herself down on a chair.
"I don't blame you for it." Emer looked skeptically at the food before her but took a tentative spoonful. "If a strange woman came into my home…"
"My home, ye think this is my home?"
"I assumed." She placed the gruel to her lips, grimaced and managed to swallow.
"Well it ain't. Got me own ship. A right fine one too. I'm just doing ol'Jack here a favor."
"That is very kind."
"And I don't have much patience for favors." Anamaria twisted the red bandana tied about her brow. "I'm not doing any favors for ye either."
"I didn't ask for one," Emer spoke sternly. "I have paid for my passage."
"Aye, but I see ye've taken to eatin' our food all right."
Emer held the spoon limply. Perhaps this was how her children felt when she scolded them. "You would make a good mother."
"What?" Anamaria sat forward. "Me a mother? Never? I've less patience for young'uns than I do for favors."
"Motherhood is not a burden. At least I find it pleasurable. I had my first child at eighteen, a year after our marriage. And now with Little James…"
"Ye have how many?"
"Two." Emer beamed, her thin lips relaxing into an easy smile. "Nelly, is the oldest at six. Her proper name is Ellen of course, after James's mother. And Little James, he is three. Named after…"
"The Commodore hisself." Anamaria plopped her chin onto the open palm of her hand, something akin to fascination glowing in her eyes. "And ye don't mind it? I mean, him naming the children his own way after ye birthed 'em."
"No, why should I? My own parents have names that are too Irish for respectable British children. Though I do wish I could have raised them as Catholics."
"Catholics?" Anamaria's eyebrows darted upwards. "Ye Irish are strange lady. How is that ye ended up married to an Englishman, then?"
Emer sighed. "I know many that believe James married beneath his station, even though my father's wealth is nearly as great as his. The Irish, like pirates, are not held in high esteem. But my James overlooked what is considered to be an unfavorable heritage. He overlooked many things," she admitted, now frowning.
"Then if he's such a good man, why are ye dragging him along on such a chase? For fun? Excitement? Is it that boring being a Commodore's wife?"
Emer clenched her fingers around the base of the mug. A simple question, surely, but she considered her reasons for this journey private. Anamaria, on the other hand, leaned forward expectantly.
"Every marriage has its difficulties," she answered. The words were harder spoken than thought. Admitting such a problem to a stranger shamed her.
Amazingly, Anamaria smiled. "Eh, it's true I suppose. Though I've never been married so I can't speak for it meself."
"You're smiling." Emer noted. "Does that mean you trust me?"
"No." Anamaria said. "But at least yer being honest with me now."
A storm blew up, rocking the Pearl gently along the waves and into the mist that fell about, like the arms of angels in heaven. Jack rested his hand on the helm, feeling his ship breath with every surge of sea water that ran against the hull. The hand on his compass twitched feebly southwest and then stopped. He snapped it shut and placed it within his breast pocket. Sailing aimlessly along the seas was his joy but now, it made him tense. The crew had said not a word about his strange business deal with Norrington's wife and even though he didn't mind her company, he wanted it over with.
Ducking and weaving to avoid his debt collectors was hard enough. But now he had to make himself easy to find for the Dauntless. With any luck he would emerge from this ordeal with his head still firmly in place.
"Storm coming," Gibbs mumbled, joining him by the helm.
"More than that," Jack replied, watching one gray wave rise after another.
"What's in your head Captain?" Gibbs asked, looking nervously over his shoulder at the bleak ocean.
"Hairs on the back of me neck standin' straight up," he said. "There's something more than that fog out there."
Gibbs fished for his flask in his trouser pocket. "Aye."
"Ahoy! Captain!" Jack raised his eyes at the sound of the crewman's voice.
"That'll be it now."
A younger man who had not been with the Pearl long rushed up, his face plastered with sweat.
"Aye, lad," Jack said, leaning his hand on his cutlass.
"Seen a ship, Captain," he panted. "A grand one, painted up all nice with great sails that heaved against the wind."
"Aye." Jack looked towards Gibbs who downed the last of the liquor in his flask. "Best ye be getting below and telling Mrs. Norrington her husband's here."
