I always forget the disclaimer. Obviously I neither own nor profit from this.
Chapter 2- Vestiges of a Pirate King
Elizabeth stared at herself in her mirror, eyes wide, her soul torn.
She determined that she hardly recognized herself anymore.
Touching her cheek, she grimaced. It was pale as porcelain, deprived of the kiss of the sun.
Her once proud lion's man of golden hair had gone dark, for the same reason. Only the ends remained a shining blonde she could not bear to trim away.
Perhaps society considered these perfectly desirable traits for a lady, but she viewed them with disdain. She regarded herself with loathing, because she could not get up the courage to fish out the man's costume and sword she kept in a false bottom of a trunk in the corner of her room, and go down to the wharf where she would find gossip of Jack, and perhaps even a fact or two.
She, the once proud Pirate King, a girl who had united an armada of pirates in a fierce call to battle, reduced to a coward afraid to leave her room at night. Afraid to move from this cushy tufted stood before her vanity, when he was out there.
Jack was in London.
Even if he'd disappeared from the Old Bailey like a wisp of smoke, she knew he'd been there. She knew he hadn't been a figment of her hopeful imagination.
Already, news of his apprehension and daring escape had spread all over the city. Her uncle had sniffed about it over dinner, drawling that it would only be a matter of time before the actual Jack Sparrow was hanged. To her shame, Elizabeth had not risen to the bait, as she may have upon the first months of her arrival. Instead she cast her eyes down upon her fish soup, and said nothing.
Elizabeth had returned to England shortly after the conclusion of the battle with Davy Jones and Lord Becket. Port Royal held nothing for her but ghosts. An empty house where she and her father had lived. The memory of a blacksmith who had loved her dearly, now dead. A legendary pirate who she had loved, and killed, then resurrected, who had gladly sailed far away from her.
She had hoped her return to London would open a new chapter of her life, yet the moment she stepped from the gangway to the dock she feared she'd made a terrible mistake leaving the Caribbean.
After her father's murder, her uncle Lord Timothy Swann had inherited Weatherby's title and wealth. Elizabeth, as a mere woman, could not see a cent of it until she married. She received a small stipend which she stashed away, the near entirety of which she had used for Gibbs' counsel. Until the event of her surrender to a man in holy matrimony, she remained under her only remaining relative's roof, a pirate lord pretending to be a lady.
As the years passed Elizabeth feared the pretense lessened more and more, her edges softening with time, her memories clouding. The last vestige of her former glory she clung to was weekly fencing lessons with a master of the art. For one hour a week she allowed herself to remember vividly the excitement of crossing steel with an opponent, and more often than not, victory.
It was a quirk that her aunt tolerated with barely concealed disapproval. Mary Swann could not wait to see her strange niece off into the stewardship of another, preferably a wealthy noble with influence in the House of Lords.
Elizabeth attempted to pull a silver-backed brush through her hair, and found her hands shaking as she did so.
Disgusted, she threw down the brush, pacing her room as a tiger in a cage.
What was she so afraid of?
That she would find Jack?
Or that she wouldn't?
Either prospect seemed equal in their potential for disappointment.
Three years ago he'd put her off the Pearl at Port Royal with a restrained farewell, her attempt to embrace him cut short by a wave of bejeweled fingers and a declaration of Once was enough.
That rejection cut her more deeply than Jack could ever know. Wounded, she'd lifted her chin, affecting a smile that did not reach her eyes. With a nod she'd turned on her heel and walked out of his life, supposedly forever.
He'd been so cold since his rescue from the Locker, a shade of the man he'd once been.
Yet earlier that day she'd looked into his eyes and beheld that familiar spark once again. Happy mischief and a Puckish smile. He'd teased her in front of a crowd of hundreds, the way he once had.
Perhaps his soul had simply needed time to thaw.
Perhaps he didn't hate her so much after all.
Perhaps he hadn't given her a single thought since seeing her off.
One thing was certain. If she continued to play the coward, hiding in this large, dark if not luxurious house, she would never know.
Her courage bolstered, she flew to her trunk, desperate to get herself under way before she could talk herself out of it again.
