GOLDEN LIGHT SPILLED INTO THE DINING ROOM from behind thin beige drapes. Marion watched as they billowed in the morning breeze. Outside, the day was kissed by lips of warmth and blue skies. Seagulls flew over the glistening harbour, the bustling chatter of townsfolk echoed up the hill, and the sun glared ferociously down at the Jamaican city of Port Royal. The breeze untwined itself from the drapes and drifted over to tickle Marion's peony tainted cheeks as she finished buttering her breakfast toast. Gloopy marmalade was applied briefly after.
The manor, situated on a grassy hill that overlooked the city's port, was usually silent this time of morning. It would just be Marion and the clinking of silver cutlery upon porcelain plates. Lady Taylor — an elderly and very wealthy widow — never awoke earlier than nine o'clock, unless there was a very good reason to. A reason like Captain Norrington's promotion.
Lady Taylor joined Marion at the table, helping herself to a cup of tea and asking Finn, the cook, to fry her some scrambled eggs. Nearing her sixty-third birthday with hair as black as onyx and rippled with streaks of grey, Lady Taylor was the closest thing to a mother Marion ever had. Although she was sometimes strict, Lady Taylor had a heart of gold, which was proved when she'd offered to adopt Marion when she was seven years of age.
Marion had been raised to practise the rules of etiquette in the high class society she lived in. She'd been taught to write elegantly, speak eloquently, and read comprehensively. The latter she enjoyed the most. During the dreary hours when storms would rattle the harbour waters, Marion would brew herself an earl grey and flip through the pages of a new book. During the warmer days when not a cloud could be spotted in the crystalline sky, Marion would take a stroll down to the docks and read upon the wharf, her feet dipping into the sea.
Finn returned with Lady Taylor's eggs and then disappeared back into the kitchen. Marion had always approved of Finn. They were roughly the same age and spent many memories together in their youth, playing in the garden, conjuring sandcastles on the beach, and pulling pranks on the other staff. However, when Finn reached fifteen and had to step up and take over his father's duties, it put a strain on their relationship. While Marion preferred not to stray from their casual ways, Finn took his position seriously and didn't want to be found associating informally with his mistress' 'daughter'. From then on they had travelled their separate roads, and now only spoke in a direct, professional manner. It was a pity that their friendship had been so easily cast aside, but Marion had learned that status was everything in this day and age and needed to be maintained with precision and caution.
Lady Taylor looked over at Marion from under stubbly lashes. Her lips had been painted wine red for the upcoming occasion and a black mole had been drawn to the right of her cupid's bow. Her hair had been styled into a bun, a few coils left out to frame her face.
"What are you thinking of, my dear?"
Marion sighed, her glazed features vanishing. "Nothing, ma'am." Lady Taylor never agreed with Finn and Marion's friendship, due to their difference in class. It was hard for her not to remind the older woman that Marion herself only came from a small merchant family. "Just merely wondering whether the water is as warm as it looks today. Would you care if I disappeared for a read down by the docks after the ceremony?"
"Not at all, the day is a perfect one to explore the lives of Ophelia or Desdemona," said Lady Taylor, referencing the female characters in Shakespeare's Hamlet and Othello. "However, do not forget that we are having dinner with that lord from Nigeria tonight."
Marion had indeed forgotten. With Captain Norrington's promotion consuming her mind for the last week or so, the dinner that Lady Taylor had planned had slipped into a mere whisper. Unfortunately, that meant Marion would have to go through an intense dressing twice today. Her ribs whined at the pain of being tightened again later that afternoon.
"Of course," Marion inclined her head, her glossy curls falling into her eyes. "I shall return by five o'clock, and be ready by six."
"Excellent, now, I have something to tell you, though I'm not sure you'll like it." Marion stayed quiet and waited for Lady Taylor to continue. "I've heard through the grapevine that Captain Norrington, well I suppose Commodore Norrington by the time this happens, plans to ask for the governor's daughter, Elizabeth's, hand in marriage."
Marion's mouth grew dry and her eyes dulled.
"What?"
"I'm sorry, my dear, I know you have been fancying him for quite a while now," Lady Taylor grimaced. "I thought I should warn you though, in case it happens today at the ceremony."
"Oh. Right."
Marion didn't bother to hide her disappointment. She'd thought perhaps the two of them would be able to talk at his promotion, but clearly she wasn't the girl he wanted to talk to. For almost a year Marion had quietly admired the captain, only speaking to him when he'd occasionally come over for dinner. Handsome as he was with naturally brown hair and smooth hazel eyes, flecked with shades of olive green, she preferred the perfect combination of kindness and proprietary he resembled. Though he cared for his men like no other captain she had seen before, he also didn't let any of them slack off. He was logical, clever and never took any stupid risks to show off. What more could a girl ask for? Oh, except for perhaps the chance to actually be with that kind of man.
The men Marion craved never returned the desire. Only the men with wine-tainted breaths or pompous attitudes lusted after her. Not that she minded — she was only eighteen years afterall. However with her friends soon to be married and Captain Norrington proposing to Elizabeth, Marion felt a wave of loneliness sweep over her. Like misty rain dampening a yellow daffodil. And like a daffodil, her petals drooped and she no longer held any anticipation for the captain's ceremony.
Lady Taylor must've noticed her change in spirits, and drew the subject from Captain Norrington to newly flourishing hibiscuses in the garden. Marion could see them from the window — glistening with beads of moisture, their vibrant pink contrasting with the pale green of their stem.
Lady Taylor enjoyed the gardens. She would disappear into the manor's floral fields for hours on end, and would return leaving a trail of natural perfumes in her wake. Marion would join her sometimes, but would rather settle down on an outdoor bench and read her books than marvel at the blossoms and manicured hedges. Marion often wondered if Lady Taylor loved the garden so much because it reminded her of her late husband. Although Marion never met Lord Frederick, she felt almost as though she knew him through the fond memories Lady Taylor would recall to her some nights over dinner. He'd been a handsome lad, tall and lean, and fascinated by anything that dated back further than one hundred years. He had a collection of antique maps and books in his study, and despite Lady Taylor not having the heart to remove them, Marion was never allowed to see them.
However, she wasn't frustrated by it. Marion understood why Lady Taylor wanted to keep some of her husband to herself, even if it was only his old relics. Sometimes Lady Taylor would lock herself in Lord Frederick's study, and when Marion walked passed, she could usually hear a slight sniffling through the hickory door. She'd never mentioned it to Lady Taylor, and perhaps the older woman was grateful for that.
On other happier days, Lady Taylor would pull Marion into the garden and they'd visit all of Lord Frederick's favourite spots. The weathered rope swing dangling from an ancient oak, the intricate stone fountain, the white roses which shone with an ethereal glow, and the small stream that trickled down the grassy banks until it reached the sea. Marion would stay silent during these times, letting Lady Taylor bring her along for peaceful companionship as she lost herself in memories from the past.
Lord Frederick had passed away from smallpox when he was forty-six years old. The months that followed were dark and dreary for Lady Taylor, and for almost a year she had been overwhelmed with his loss. In a way, Marion thought that she'd helped fill that aching hole in Lady Taylor's chest when she was adopted a few years after. Being only seven, Marion took up a lot of Lady Taylor's time and energy, despite having maids at her disposal. Lady Taylor would only use them when necessary, preferring to raise Marion independently as she'd never been granted children of her own.
The pattering of a sparrow on the window awoke Marion from her thoughts. The little bird cocked its head, as if expecting Marion to toss it a crumb of her toast. Instead she shooed it away.
Breakfast ended shortly thereafter, and the table was cleaned by the servants, leaving Marion with nothing to do but grab her white laced parasol and wait for the carriage to arrive and take her and Lady Taylor to the ceremony. As Marion walked through the hallway, high heels clipping against the polished surface, she caught a flash of herself in the ornate, gold-rimmed mirror hanging on the wall. Hair as brown as melted chocolate, eyes wide and doe-like, and skin tanned by the harsh Jamaican sun reflected back. Her lips were pink and pouty, likely a consequence of her anxiety to see if the one man she fancied was going to propose to another girl.
The carriage careened down the cobbled street just as Marion stepped outside. A footman hopped out and opened the door. Accepting his offered hand, Marion stepped into the carriage, nestling into the plump red seats. The smell of leather lingered in the compartment, along with a hint of shoe polish — perhaps the driver's.
Lady Taylor entered a moment later, her blue petticoat swishing as she took a seat next to Marion. The driver clicked his tongue, and the sound of horse hooves echoed against the street.
On the hill where Lady Taylor's manor was built, only the wealthy lived. The grass was always lush and trimmed, the streets were clean and nearly always absent of stray drunkards, and the air seemed light and fresh. However, to get to the battlements where the promotion was being held, one had to drive through the lower city port — the hometown of the riff-raff.
The cobble turned into cracked dirt and the windows of the carriage became blurred by dust. Beggars littered alleyways and farm animals were let loose to graze in the muck wherever they pleased. Lady Taylor averted her gaze, holding a handkerchief up to her nose. Marion didn't agree to the stench either but she thought it rude to display it so obviously, even if the windows were fogged up enough that no one would see. Some people didn't have a choice but to live in such conditions. Not everyone was blessed with prosperity. For seven years, Marion had learned that. Though she couldn't remember many details from her life before Lady Taylor, she could visualize the kind, tender face of her mother, the rough, work-worn hands of her father, and the playful grin of her elder brother. They'd lived in poverty — in areas like this for as long as she knew them. Marion could remember the emptiness in her stomach, the taste of salt that stained her cracking lips.
But that was a long time ago, and luckily no misfortunes had cast a shadow over her since.
A shadow silhouetted against the fierce sun as it walked directly in front of the careering carriage. Before Marion could open her mouth, there was a thud, and the carriage driver skidded to a stop. Lady Taylor looked surprised and tried to strain her neck out the window to see what the commotion was. Marion bet her to it, jumping swiftly from the carriage and staining her pearl white shoes with a revolting brown. She hurried around the corner, ignoring the confused stares of passersby, to find a young man knocked to the ground and clutching his right ribs.
"Oh my!" Marion exclaimed as she came closer. "Are you alright?" He was wearing shabby clothes — a dirty white blouse underneath a brown tunic. His dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
"Er, yes," he said, stretching his muscles and groaning slightly. His gaze lifted up to meet hers. It was light and tawny and warm. Then his brows furrowed; a flicker of confusion. "I — uh — apologise for interrupting your ride, my lady. It was not my intention."
His whole posture had changed as soon as he saw her; his shoulders drew back and he had lowered his head. A sign of respect. He'd seemed surprised to see that someone of Marion's status had even cared to leave her carriage. People like him — the less fortunate — always expected people like her to be snobs. To not care about other people's feelings. To scorn or ignore. But Marion knew what it was like to have nothing. She would never rub her wealth in someone else's face. Squash them with it, like a boot crushes an ant.
"I know," said Marion, "and I wouldn't stress over it. I feel more apologetic to you, since you were the one being trampled."
He half-grimaced and accepted Marion's hand of offering. She hauled him to his feet, being surprisingly strong for her nimble build. His hand was rough against hers — cool and calloused. "No, it was my own fault. I wasn't thinking. My mind was… elsewhere."
"Having a tiresome morning, I suppose?"
His eyes glimmered for a moment as a ray of sun grazed his face. "Something like that."
The driver looked at Marion impatiently from behind the windscreen, as if a silent goad to hurry up. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Didn't he have any compassion for the poor man he had almost run over?
"Well, I do hope there isn't too much damage. I'd hate to be the reason you were kept from your work for a week or two…" she paused, looking him up and down. From his weather leather boots to his muscled arms. "Where is it that you work anyway?"
Again, he seemed surprised that she even asked. "I'm a blacksmith, down by John Smith's."
"Oh, well that explains the…" she trailed off, blushing rose.
"The what, my lady?"
"Um, it's just you have very… rough hands, is all." Marion cringed at how pathetic she sounded. She hoped he didn't take it as an insult.
Instead he chuckled. It was a low, gruff sound that suited a blacksmith very well. "I suppose that's a consequence of working with metal all day. Speaking of, I should be going. I have more orders to deliver before noon."
"Remember to watch before you cross the street," Marion smiled, only half kidding. Another bash by a quick-moving vehicle and the man would end up at the local doctor's. Not to mention the fortune it would cost to mend a couple broken bones.
A lopsided grin formed on his lips and he tipped his head at her. "I'll keep that in mind, my lady." Then he was gone, disappearing behind the carriage and hobbling to the other side of the street, a cloud of dust erupting with each step.
Marion returned to the carriage and Lady Taylor handed her a handkerchief to wipe the grime off her shoes to at least make them half acceptable. The driver clicked his tongue and the horses flew into motion again.
The heat was unbearable.
Confined in such a tight corset that already constricted her breathing didn't help the sunstroke she was beginning to feel sink into her bones. Her fan quivered constantly in her hand, waving feebly at the beads of sweat that had appeared between her breasts. Even her toes felt sweaty, trapped under layers of stockings and shoes. The other women who were seated on the white wooden chair that had been laid out on the battlement ground seemed to be struggling just as much. Their foreheads were sheens of moisture and their hats might as well be invisible with the protection they lent.
Besides the heat, the scenery was quite pretty. The white of the chairs contrasted with the grey stone walls and the pristine red of soldier uniforms. Music meandered through the atmosphere, an orchestra of harmonising violins and trumpets. Banquet tables had been set up under the cobbled domes — a shaded area away from the ferocity of the sun. White doilies were placed under platters of cupcakes and cucumber sandwiches, and refreshments of water and wine sat to the side, the glasses reflecting and glimmering.
The moment Captain Norrington glided through an archway of soldiers and their swords, Marion's heart fluttered. He was wearing his wig today, tied back with a navy ribbon. One could tell he took pride in his uniform as it was pressed and immaculate. It always was, but today he truly wore it. His head was high and his shoulders were back. Though still humble, he wasn't embarrassed to be receiving this honour. He immersed himself in it, his whole demeanor savouring it's authority. And like Captain Norrington lost himself in his new position, Marion lost herself in him. Despite the glare, her eyes were as wide as ever, watching in anticipation at his every move. Confident, determined, satisfied.
When the ceremony ended her eyes still couldn't help but follow him as he mingled through the guests, politely nodding at the men and pecking the ladies' hands. Marion had found herself at the food table, trying to suppress herself from chugging down a glass of water. Instead she sipped it quietly. Lady Taylor had vanished after the ceremony, most likely chatting away with her friends about Port Royal's latest gossip.
Marion had never felt comfortable in social events. She was raised to be well-mannered and be able to hold an interesting conversation, but she never quite felt fluent at it. Preferring her own company, she would escape to the outer corners of the room. They were a light and Marion was a moth. Her wings would stay dull and would flutter only when necessary. Unlike Lady Taylor, who adored being centre of attention — a butterfly whose vibrant colours would captivate anyone who was near. It was in moments like those when Marion would catch a glimpse of the woman Lady Taylor had been before Lord Frederick's death.
Although her hole had been patched up, knitted closed after many, many years, wool could still easily be snapped, and sometimes it did. Those days when Lady Taylor would lock herself in her husband's study, the thread started to unravel. To leave the hole vulnerable and gaping. It took the whole rest of the day to stitch back up. And even then it was so very fragile — like all broken hearts were.
However, Lady Taylor regained some of her former glow when she was presenting her porcelain plates and teacups to any manor guests, or hosting a party where every ear was perked to hear her speak. A butterfly who relished being in the light.
A butterfly who adopted a moth.
A moth who now clung to the corners of the celebration, eyes too blind to notice the commodore that approached her, a glass of sanguine wine in his hand.
"Miss Swift, if I'm correct?" His voice was deep and powerful.
Marion jolted in surprise, her fingers nearly dropping her water. The commodore smiled and she felt like she was an icicle, melting — drooling — in his presence.
"Yes, sir," was all she could utter out.
"There's no need to call me sir, Miss Swift." His words were like honey to her ears — so smooth, so delicious. "I may be commodore, but I'm still the same man who was granted Lieutenant all those years ago."
Marion dipped her head in respect. "Congratulations on your promotion, si—James. I'm sure it would feel like such a relief to finally receive this. It was through your efforts that Port Royal became a civilised British settlement, afterall. Quite impressive."
"I didn't realise you cared for my achievements," said James, sounding pleasantly surprised. "In fact, I never realised you knew more than my name."
Marion flushed, the fuscia colour softening her cheeks. She didn't know if she should be hurt that James had never noticed her fancying him, or relieved because he hadn't consciously chosen Elizabeth over her. Speaking of the girl, Marion had spotted her earlier, looking beautiful in a golden threaded gown with her caramel hair shimmering, even under her hat. Marion and Elizabeth had never been friends, despite belonging to the same social circles. They were polite when they saw each other, even smiled, but never held any conversations that went deeper than a "hello, how are you?" or "this roast pork is absolutely mouth-watering!" Perhaps she should be happy for Elizabeth's fortune with capturing the heart of such an accomplished young man. But she felt only pain and sorrow.
"Well, I suppose that happens when you only ever talk to Lady Taylor over dinner." Marion had said it in a light-hearted way, but the words felt heavy on her tongue.
"That's clearly not right, Miss Swift, and you know it! Only last week I asked you how your day was going."
"Ah, but commodore you should know that a woman never answers that question correctly," Marion gave a small, coy smile. "So really, you still don't know a thing about me."
"Well, then, that simply must change," said James, making Marion's heart lift, just a bit.
"Indeed it does. I'll start." Marion pondered for a moment, every fact about her entire life feeling as though it was slipping through her fingers. "Uh, my favourite colour is yellow."
James chuckled. "Like the sun?"
"More like a daffodil. More pale than golden. Sometimes I think the subtler things in life can be even more beautiful than the bright ones." Marion had found that even with all her wealth and prosperity, she preferred simple pleasures like reading over parties and ceremonies.
"Alright, my favourite poem is Upon A Spider Catching A Fly by Edward Taylor."
"Whereas the silly fly, caught by its leg, thou by the throat tookst hastily, and hinde the head, bite dead," Marion recited, the words tumbling familiarly from her lips. A poem she herself had read on one of those rainy days.
"This goes to pot that not nature doth call. Strive not above what strength hath got lest in the brawl thou fall" finished James, a smile curving the corners of his mouth. The expression sent a shiver of warmth down to the pit of her stomach. "You're familiar with his work?"
"I dally in it, though I prefer books to poetry."
"I'm too busy to bury myself in too long a literature, so I find poetry is a good balance. I could recommend some to you, one day, if you'd like? And you could tell me about some of your favourite books."
Marion couldn't prevent the smile that shone on her face. "I'd love to. Though I'm not sure if you'd be interested in my type of books. They're rather… romantic."
James laughed. "I think we all need a bit of romance in our lives," he paused, eyes flickering to something behind her. "Speaking of…"
Marion turned around to follow his gaze and found Elizabeth standing a few feet away, conversing with an elderly couple. Her heart sank. Of course. Marion was nothing more than a distraction. Elizabeth was who he really wanted to talk to — his true desire to speak of poetry to.
"Would you excuse me, Miss Swift? I have something important to attend to…" Without waiting for an answer, he leaned down and kissed her hand. But it didn't feel warm or fluttery, like it would've a few moments ago. Instead, it felt cold and unwanted. Like a stain upon her flesh.
Marion watched as he walked away and muttered something in Elizabeth's ear. And she continued to watch as he took her to the edge of the battlements, the ocean sparkling below and the sky a ribbon of majestic blue above. The perfect place to propose.
For a few blissful moments Marion had lost herself in his presence. Forgot about the soon-to-be engagement and the fact that he didn't love her like she loved him. For the few moments that they had spoken, she'd felt happy. Nervous and bashful, but… happy.
Now she felt only a chill.
Marion didn't watch them any further.