AN: heylo! Very glad everyone's liking this so far, cos I'm having a whale of a time writing it. instead of revising road signs for my driving theory test. Aw, shucks…anyhoo…the Commodore is a right party pooper in this chapter (personally I'd love to go to one of those balls like in Jane Austen books where they all know every single dance move) but you can't blame him, can you? Poor, poor Norrie…dd xxx
9
James Norrington stood before his mirror, miserably rearranging his collar, and tweaking the hated wig, fabricating ludicrous excuses which he could use to avoid the evening's party.
Not for the first time, he cursed Captain Jack Sparrow, though perhaps in slightly unusual terms. If only the infernal brigand would surface with his dastardly crew, and coerce the Commodore into giving chase.
Looking out of his bedroom, Norrington could see that the bay in Port Royal remained stubbornly devoid of pirates to pursue, and he resigned himself, not without bad grace, to an evening of watching Will Turner put his hand protectively on the small of Elizabeth's back, and of avoiding crazed females infected with the lust weddings and betrothals brings.
He felt naked out of his customary naval uniform, and looked sceptically at his reflection in the mirror, picking bad-temperedly at the gold stitching down his front. He wasn't at all sure cream suited him. Much less rose, which was the dubious shade Groves assured him was perfect for his waistcoat.
Dusk was falling rapidly, compelling Norrington finally to straighten the tie in his hair one last time, and call the carriage.
He sat in brooding silence and trepidation throughout the short ride, and sunk further into a bad temper as the jovial lights of the Governor's house drew nearer, and the gay shouts of many voices pervaded his self-imposed melancholy.
The doors opened as the carriage scrunched through the gravel, spilling bright lights into the darkening night. Norrington glimpsed the expected maelstrom of dresses, wigs and champagne glasses as he alighted from the carriage and adjusted his composure to his usual public haughtiness.
A deep breath, and he was inside the familiar lobby, gazing serenely on the excited mass without outward sign of uncertainty or discomfort.
But there was only a brief pause before Elizabeth was sweeping towards him, resplendent in a cascading dress of blue and gold, with her glorious, wonderful smile advancing swiftly towards him.
'James!' she exclaimed in what seemed to Norrington to be sheer sincere joy, and he could not help but smile back at her as he kissed her hand formally.
'Miss Swann. You look…well.' Norrington grimaced inwardly at his inferior turn of phrase, but concluded that it would hardly be proper to tell the hostess that she looked 'simply ravishable', a phrase his wayward brain was screaming.
She smiled again, a little awkwardly this time, and said with a brittle edge to her voice, 'we are so pleased you could be here tonight.'
We. In the pleasure her smile afforded the Commodore, he had almost managed to forget the bare, undesirable facts of the evening. He felt the familiar tightness settle in his chest that occurred each time he thought of her hair flying free about her face as she said 'you are a fine man, James.' So long ago, now, that idle, useless exchange aboard the Dauntless.
Sure enough, as they gazed at each other, and looked away in mutual embarrassment, Will Turner approached the pair.
'Commodore Norrington,' he said warmly, shaking the Commodore's reluctant hand. 'So pleased you could make it.'
'I would not have missed it for the world,' Norrington lied smoothly. He felt the champagne calling to him, as he watched Turner place a gentle hand on Elizabeth's exposed wrist, and he excused himself swiftly, his face reddening with humiliation and misery.
Times like this I know this is love, he thought despondently, as he picked up a fragile champagne flute and sipped at it a little too hastily.
The room, although large, was warm, with groups of excitable young officers and sculpted ladies pressing on each other, sparkling in the light of chandeliers and huge mirrors.
Norrington moved slowly, indifferently from group to giggling group, exchanging pleasantries with officers who treated him with distant respect and made it clear that he was not welcome in the circle, and stifling his contempt at the inane gossip flowing in these cliques.
He fancied he felt more than one pair of curious eyes on his stiff back, and was almost certain he had heard his name mentioned in a hushed, excited whisper. When he whipped round to hear more of the scandalous chitchat, the speakers hurriedly held their tongues and switched to that most universal of subjects, the weather.
As though there is any variation in the Caribbean, the Commodore thought with a sneer.
His champagne was half-gone when the Governor, with his magnificent wig billowing over his shoulders, proposed the customary toast. Norrington searched frantically for an exit, but was confined by happy well wishers and was forced to endure endless, painful pledges for the future happiness of the pair, and professions of a father's humble pride.
Norrington closed his eyes reverently as he imagined the same situation, but with a very different figure standing next to Elizabeth, looking into her worldly eyes, pledging a lifetime of dedication and unconditional love solemnly. He knew he would do it at a moment's notice, were he to be asked. Permitted.
He raised his glass with the rest of the glittering company, and drank slowly, his eyes looking at anything but the couple in the centre of the room, accepting kisses of congratulation and affection, and looking so wonderfully at peace together.
The clock on the mantel showed it to be only nine o'clock, and Norrington cursed Time for dragging his heels so teasingly.
It was presently his inescapable turn to offer his best wishes to the bride and groom to be, and it was all he could do not to recall the exchange with Elizabeth over a month ago, and to remember the gentle, unexpected press of her lips against his.
'Miss Swann, Mr Turner,' he began in his most pompous, detached Commodore voice, 'please accept my very best wishes for your life together. I…' he found he could lie no longer, could no longer look at Elizabeth in her immortal beauty and still pretend that he was the dignified loser. He kissed her hand chastely and melted back into the crowd, plagued by the little glint of hurt and concern in her eyes as he looked up at her from his bow.
A quiet corner, he thought frantically. A small refuge away from the boisterous commotion, where he could gather his scrambled thoughts and hold his aching head. The lights were far too bright, and the women were far too polished, and Elizabeth was far too beautiful for him ever to forget her.
To his extreme horror and alarm, a string quartet he had previously overlooked struck up a lively minuet, and his eyes darted in terror around the room for any exit, even a window, through which he could escape the indignity of dancing.
Perhaps by turning to face the wall, he might avoid the eyes of predatory young women, all of whom were scanning the company for suitable partners. His heart began to beat wildly, and out of the corner of his vision he saw the magnificent blue dress whirl around and around in Will Turner's confident hold.
Misery, misery.
'Commodore?'
Norrington cringed as he looked round, and started with a sudden sensation of relief and happiness. Lieutenant Groves, looking likewise uncomfortable in civilian dress, was beaming at him in mutual dislike of the dancing and the prowling packs of women.
Next to him, her eyes as ever cast demurely to the ground, stood Miss Alicia Groves.
And with an unexpected jolt of realisation, Norrington appreciated that, one day, it was conceivable that he might forget Elizabeth Swann, after all.
AN: I also react in this way to alcohol…I become melancholy and maudlin and think things like 'misery, misery.' Dear me, emo!Norrington. Ta ta for now, as they say, dd xx