AN: hmph. Internet breakage seems to be occurring very frequently chez moi. I suspect foul play – ie my father pulling the plug to encourage me to read fat tomes of medieval history. Which is frankly, not what the summer is for. However, I am now back with a vengeance, and bring much contemplative!Norrie and such goodies, with my very best wishes and thanks for your reviews. And to all you UK lovelies, who's looking forward to 'How do you solve a problem like Maria'? I love John Barrowman. Is all I have to say… dd xx
39
Norrington was less than pleased to wake on the morning of his marriage to find that he had left the window open, and neglected to draw the drapes. Consequently, blinding shafts of sunshine and a lusty dawn chorus of birdsong awoke him from a sleep absent of dreams several hours before his usual rising time.
Unable to fall back into sleep, he reached for the book of sonnets beside his bed and tried to read. The words merged mercilessly into each other, and slipped away, and refused to seep into his leaping mind. In disgust, he cast the book to the floor and sat upright in bed, a faintly comical sight with his rumpled nightshirt and tousled hair. The birdsong had finally ceased, and there was blissful silence in the room, but Norrington found this grated on his nerves even more.
He seethed as he tried to estimate the hours before the marriage. Four, maybe five hours to wait before he needed to be at the church. Hours of silence and a total lack of useful application lay before him, during which, he knew, his nerves would augment and his inclination to flee the region in a small rowing boat would swell out of all proportions.
The household staff were to blame, he decided. They had cleaned each and every room in the house, removed the dust-covers from the many chambers the Commodore in his bachelorship neglected to use, they had organized the menus for the week ahead many days previous, and had rehearsed their roles upon Mrs Norrington's arrival to perfection.
Worst of all, the valet had kindly laid out Norrington's wedding clothes the night before, so he was spared even the exertion of fetching his uniform from the wardrobe. He grimaced as he regarded the offending garments on the chair. To be married in what were, essentially, one's work clothes. Granted, he was to wear a new shirt, due to the stubborn bloodstains on all his others, and was to be adorned with a few more golden baubles and medals than he might have worn aboard the Dauntless. However, it seemed that there was to be no escaping the sea, even today.
Norrington allowed himself a few moments of inward cursing as he thought of the whole affair. Not content with organizing the catering, the flowers, the bridesmaids' dresses and the music at the reception, Elizabeth Swann had infected Captain Gillette with an unfortunate zeal to make his own personal mark on the proceedings.
Hence, the Commodore was being forced by an inferior officer to marry, not wearing a fine French silk waistcoat and new coat in an attractive shade of rusty red, but instead in his naval uniform. There would be an archway of rifles to guide the couple from the church, and no doubt a band blasting out Rule, Britannia, Norrington imagined glumly. One day, he thought, one day with no reminder that my career is a potentially fatal one, is that too much to ask?
The proposed missions were preying heavily on his mind. He was sure Alicia would not enjoy being reminded of the duty that would carry her husband away so soon. However, he was resigned to this nautical flavour to the occasion, and besides, would not risk dressing at present, for fear of dripping his morning tea down his pristine front.
Quite apart from this sartorial dilemma, Norrington was painfully aware of another looming question. Once again, his distress was attributable to one well-meaning Captain Gillette. He glanced nervously about him, at the expanse of white sheets and crumpled eiderdown, and remembered the gentle chastisement and disapproval in Gillette's eyes whenever he suggested a trip into town. More often than not, the silent objection in the Captain's countenance were enough to persuade the Commodore to stay at home and play cards, instead of haunting the wretched bordellos. And consequently, he was poorly versed in the physical aspect of love, and was plagued by the notion that Freddy Armitage was most likely an expert in this particular field.
It was possibly for the best, he thought stoically, considering he was a respected pillar of the community. However, the fact remained that he was positively dreading the evening, and he wondered again if the little rowing boat idea might not be an option. He could flee to some far-off island, and live celibate, single and unshaven for the rest of his life.
He grinned wryly to himself at his stupid fantasizing as he arose from the offending bed, and went about his normal toilette. Ten minutes later, cleanly shaven, coiffed and robed in his dressing-gown, he descended the sweeping stairs in search of some tea and toast.
'The mail, sir,' Mrs Manning said as he met her at the foot of the stairs, handing him a thick stack of envelopes.
'Good Lord,' he said, blinking in surprise. 'So many letters…I don't know how people think I will have time to answer them.'
'Well, it is your wedding day, Commodore Norrington,' replied the housekeeper.
'Quite.' He turned to enter the morning room, and remembered suddenly. 'Oh, Mrs Manning, would you be so kind as to ensure there are flowers in the dining room and the parlour this afternoon?'
The elderly woman nodded curtly, and turned towards the kitchen. Norrington watched her go. Surely she could not fear that her new mistress might usurp her position of dominance? Norrington could scarcely imagine Alicia running a household – she was so timid and unassuming.
But there was little time to consider the attitudes and opinions of the servants. The Commodore was soon seated at his customary little table, picking at a piece of rapidly cooling toast. Every motion he undertook seemed to garner great significance. There was finality about each action, as if his life as a bachelor was bidding goodbye to him slowly, with each final gesture. This is the last time, he thought as he poured his tea. Tomorrow it would be Alicia fixing his breakfast, smiling at him through the fragrant steam of China tea. The chairs by the window – no more would he sit there alone, but with another beside him, two companions happy in their contented silence, occupied perhaps with a newspaper and embroidery, or reading a letter aloud. He had not quite been able to quash his wicked thought the night before; this is the last time I go to bed alone.
His mind wandering again, he turned resolutely to the mountain of mail, armed with the silver-plated paper knife. Every envelope he opened seemed to be a well-worded expression of good wishes and congratulation from a guest he was sure to see that very day. He added card after card to a pile by his elbow, baffled by this new custom. No doubt Alicia would know what to do with them – she would want to keep them, perhaps, and look at them when he was gone away.
The morning dragged on, the sun rising slowly, lazily into a hazy sky, while Norrington struggled with a frank letter to his father in England. Now more than ever he missed his father – his stern yet loving face, and proud smile as he waved his son, the young Lieutenant, off from the quay in Southampton years earlier. Norrington wondered if his first letters detailing the beginnings of his relationship with Miss Groves had arrived in England yet.
He read verses from 1 Corinthians 13, and rearranged the miniatures in their frames on his desk – his mother, his father, his cousin Philippa, his brother Oliver. The only time he had regretted being in the navy had been upon hearing of his brother's death – he had been on the other side of the world, unable to hold Ollie's hand and tell him, for the first and only time, how much he meant to him.
Occupied in thoughts far too melancholy for a marriage day, he whiled away the sweltering morning hours until he heard Groves' carriage outside. He checked his reflection in the glass, thinking wistfully of his new rust-coloured coat, and fairly ran from the house into the waiting vehicle. Groves shook his hand briskly as he settled himself, looking to the Commodore to be very fashionably dressed in a light green coat. Norrington noticed a dark stain on one sleeve of his own coat and wondered who had bled on him now. He seemed to have a terrible habit of allowing midshipmen to haemorrhage on him in battle.
AN: woo, it's NEXT CHAPTER! I love weddings. Much like Captain Jack, naturellement. Get the confetti ready, my loves… dd xx