Weatherby Swann

Elizabeth Swann was making an absolutely horrendous mistake, and her father knew it. Weatherby Swann knew—deep in his heart, down to his aging bones—that his legacy was in dire jeopardy.

Perhaps he should have taught her to respect her mother's memory.

Perhaps he should have forbidden her from reading those dreadful, salacious misconduct books.

Perhaps he should have allowed his servants to punish her for her misbehavior; to instill the fear of God in her; to make her understand the responsibilities of her station.

Perhaps he should have just plucked up the courage to take another wife with which to bear a son. But no, for such actions would have been fruitless at his age—no woman could possibly replace his late wife, and he was fortunate enough to have fathered Elizabeth seventeen years ago.

Perhaps he should never have undergone the crossing to the Caribbean—or at least he should have had the restraint and sense of security and faith in his servants to simply avoid taking Elizabeth with him.

Perhaps, if he had left her in England, she would have been civilized properly, and understood how imperative it was that she attached herself to a husband of means, substance and status.

The blacksmith's apprentice had no means to speak of, little substance, and no status in society—save as a common laborer and an acquitted pirate! Even the smallest whisper of infamy, legally exonerated or otherwise, absolutely would not do, for it was neither honorable nor indeed profitable.

It went without saying that Will Turner was a supremely poor investment. He was, of all Elizabeth's potential choices, the second greatest threat to the Swann legacy. The first, of course, being the notorious Jack Sparrow, whom Weatherby had seen Elizabeth eyeing twice and whom, thankfully, had disappeared without having the temerity to even grant a mock-proposal. Weatherby was quite certain he would have murdered Sparrow had he done so, and that no court could possibly have convicted him.

But Elizabeth actually liked Will, and that was deeply problematic. He had absolutely nothing to offer her in exchange for her hand in marriage—and she was hell-bent on pursuing him, regardless!

This was an extraordinary thing to Weatherby—marrying for love—he found it strangely premature and frighteningly insistent and terribly unwise. Yes, granted, he recalled hearing of perhaps one or two aristocratic women in his circles back in England who had chosen their husbands for reasons completely unknown to their parents. But those women had each been one of several younger sisters—never the eldest or only daughter—and marrying without express parental consent was not a thing done lightly.

Further, love itself was never a sufficient enough reason to be bound in holy matrimony among the upper classes. After all, Weatherby had not married his wife because he loved her. Both of their families had arranged their marriage, when he was 16 and she 12. And—after an extended courtship period (of five years), an official engagement, a temporary breaking of the engagement, a re-engagement, an actual marriage ceremony, the resultant acquisition of her parents' land and property, and two decades of living together—their love for each other slowly came to fruition and blossomed. It wasn't until Elizabeth had been born, and her mother died, that Weatherby realized just how much he had come to love his wife.

He wept bitterly upon losing her…

And he could not, in good conscience, allow his beloved, cherished, only child to align herself with a peasant and an outlaw, who could never possibly understand or respect the responsibilities of the aristocracy. For laborers were, in a wide respect, counted among the peasantry and the poor. Those types had no legacies to begin with, so how should they ever conceive the very real possibility of losing one?

Perhaps Weatherby should have put his foot down, once and for all, and forbade Elizabeth from marrying Will. It would have been for her own good, and though she would initially be inconsolably upset, she would come to understand her father's intentions. He only wanted what was best for her, and it was his duty as a father to protect her. But when she looked into his eyes—with that face so like her mother's—and asked, "Please, Father? May I buy Will a new coat and breeches?"—he could only hand her a coin purse and say absolutely nothing at all…