The Curious Mister Teague
Jack carefully studied the neat row of manor houses that marked the farthest reaches of the bay society. These were not the rich houses of plantation owners, but the gaudy homes of Tamarind Bay's elite. Here and there, there was a nicely appointed touch but, on the whole, the manors lacked sense just as much as they did evidences of poverty. Servants bustled about, pouring out and between their places of employ, some running to the market or the docks, others hitching up carriages and brushing down horses—it was funny how the homes of the laziest people of society were always hotbeds for activity.
It was early morning, the sun just peaking over the horizon; Jack had been wandering amid the manor homes since the deepest reaches of night, a strange sense of nostalgia stealing over him—he was so strongly reminded of his childhood that it was downright eerie. He had come to this part of the bay in search of his siren, and he wasn't sure if he'd found it or not. The rich homes would provide a nice haul, to be sure, but he was almost certain that this was not what the compass had brought him to Nevis for.
In which case, he was at a loss—Tamarind Bay was prime raiding material, but he knew he would be unable to leave until he had figured out what he was even there for.
His thoughts turned to the woman he'd spied last night: a pretty little thing in no more than a thin night gown, standing alone on the terrace of one of the gaudier manors. If only his siren were something that simple, Jack thought wistfully. But then again, maybe it was. The agreeable lasses at Tortuga were wearing on him—and boycotting him as well, but it was hardly his fault that they were so fickle. In any case, he hadn't enjoyed the company of a fine woman in ages and, if Tamarind Bay was any indication, Nevis had a bevy of them.
Jack turned back toward the market and town center, shaking his head at his own train of thought. "Perhaps you have been out in the heat too long, Sparrow."
"Oh no, this simply won't do."
"What is it?" Lucinda frowned, putting her book down in order to watch Agatha. The woman had arrived just as Lucinda's breakfast plates had been cleared away, which was damnably early by anyone's standards, and had then proceeded to invade the younger woman's home.
Agatha stepped away from the armoire, fluffed her blonde curls, and sighed. "You haven't bought a single thing since Alasdair passed, have you?"
Lucinda shook her head—she already knew where this was going. "Of course not. It would have hardly been proper for a mourning widow to go out and buy a new wardrobe."
"Well, you'll need something new for the celebration," Aggie replied, sitting down in an overstuffed chair before the fire.
Lucinda rolled her eyes and returned to her book. "I still haven't agreed to anything."
The blonde immediately stole the thick tome and sat on it. "Agreed or not, this celebration is happening, and I will not have you showing up to your own birthday in rags."
"I hardly own anything that could be considered rags, Aggie," the young widow smiled bemusedly. Agatha would have her way of course; they would end up at the dressmaker's eventually, but the argument was always worth it.
Eventually turned out to be just before noon, and Lucinda had to admit that, though she didn't want to endure something as boring and ridiculous as another birthday celebration, she was rather looking forward to purchasing a new dress. Or, at least, she had been until she saw what a fuss everyone at the shop was making.
It had been a severe error in judgment—Jack would readily admit that—but the thought of procuring Anamaria a dress so fine that she had no choice but to wear it, at least once, had been painfully tempting. Stuffing his perpetually angry Quartermaster into an uncontrollable froth of satin and lace was simply too funny to pass up. At least, that's what he had thought until he'd stepped into the dressmaker's; a small battalion of women had immediately descended upon him, cooing and questioning, trapping him until further notice.
After the second hour of relentless questions about the dress for his "younger sister" Jack decided to chalk the whole insanity up to sleep deprivation. He hadn't slept a wink since the Black Pearl had pulled into Nevis—though he had managed to find himself slightly less conspicuous clothing—and he was paying the price for that now.
He eyed the matronly dressmaker as she bustled about; after all the questions she had asked him, she probably knew Anamaria just as well as he did, yet she refused to let him leave just yet, always swinging around with a question on her lips the moment he felt like it was safe to bolt. And her assistants were no better, trying to make coy conversation with him every time their employer turned away. Under most circumstances, Jack would have found that wickedly pleasant, but the dressmaker had a habit of snapping at her young charges, and it made him more nervous than it did them. When this was all said and done, he would have absolutely no compunctions about taking the dress without paying—if he ever made it out of the shop, that is.
In fact, Jack was just about resigning himself to his fate—if they ever buried him, his tombstone would be beyond ironic: "Here lies Captain Jack Sparrow; bored to death in the domain of women,"—when someone else entered the shop. He prayed that this would mean a reprieve for him but, apparently, the dressmaker was capable of holding several customers prisoner at once. However, as far as cellmates went, they were quite lovely.
The first to enter was a blonde woman. She was short and a little plumper than was considered strictly fashionable, but striking nonetheless: her hair was threaded with thick ribbons and fell in carefully arranged curls, and adorning her was a dress of delicate blue silk decorated with pale pink rosettes. But the quiet swish of her fine fabric was completely drowned out by her kind albeit bossy voice.
Just behind the blonde was a lovely brunette wearing a bemused smile. This one was on the short side as well, but not nearly as wide as her companion, making her appear much smaller and younger than she probably was, especially in the dress she was wearing. It was a fine dress, no doubt about it, but the somber purple skirts were a little fuller than necessary, and the excessive fabric appeared to be drowning its occupant.
Glad for at least some distraction, Jack kept his eyes on the pair of ladies. Their conversation floated in and out of his hearing, but he gathered that the brunette was being strong-armed into buying a new dress.
The shop was set up in a great rectangle, the floor scattered with a grid of dress forms, each one displaying a distinctive style of dress, while great bolts of fabric lined the walls. There was a smaller room off to the side, meant for fittings or taking a lady's measurements, which was currently were the dressmaker/warden was hovering. The two ladies, however, were weaving between the dress forms, chuckling quietly to each other or letting out brief exclamations of awe. When they moved out of earshot, Jack found himself wandering after them—they were his only entertainment in this feminine hell, after all.
"What about this one?"
"I shall look like a lady of the night in a gown so scandalously cut!"
Jack listened carefully, watched carefully, and fully meant to keep his distance.
But he just couldn't help himself.
The gown before Lucinda was awe inspiring, a real thing of beauty, but she would look ridiculous in it. It was a problem she often had—with her girlish, maidenly appearance, she often looked like a young miss borrowing her mama's gowns. Rare indeed was the dress that could both look beautiful in its own right and make her look like a woman grown.
"I can't, Aggie." Lucinda sighed despondently. This trip was fast turning into a disaster, and she was quickly remembering the real reason she hadn't bought anything new since Alasdair's death. "I'm sorry."
"Are you sure?" Agatha frowned, lovingly fingering the folds of the dress in question. "It's positively fashionable—you'd be the belle of the ball in this gown!"
Lucinda held down a snort. "People would certainly stare, although not for the reason you're thinking of, I'm sure."
Agatha winced. "You do tend to look rather young in formal attire. Perhaps if we found something with skirts that aren't quite so full?"
"If I might offer an opinion?" a male voice interrupted from behind them.
Lucinda turned, bemusement already coloring her face again—it was rare to find a man in the dressmaker's; many of the women in Tamarind Bay had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that their husbands and fathers simply had no taste in fashion. But here stood a man, obviously uncaring of such a stereotype.
And what a man he was! He stood at least a full head taller than her, but he was lean and whippish, like the boys who ran to and from the harbor. His clothes were simple and rather understated—dark boots, dark trousers, a white shirt without a cravat of any kind, and a darkly colored waistcoat that hid under an equally dark greatcoat. In fact, his clothing almost appeared to be a study in acceptable blandness, for they was so completely unadorned. He would have been a perfect candidate for a newly successful merchant, if one avoided looking any higher than his shoulders. His hair was unfashionably long for a man, trailing well past his shoulders and, though he'd tied it back with a thick ribbon as gentlemen were often wont to do, he had braids threaded through the wild mass of mahogany hair; most unusually, there were braids in his beard as well. Peeking out from behind sooty-dark lashes were eyes of a deep brown, nearly black color, and they gazed out at the world in amusement.
He was fascinating as soon as one took in his appearance, and yet there was just the slightest hint of danger about him. This man was either very wild, Lucinda decided, or he was newly reformed.
Agatha interrupted her assessment, dipping a cute curtsy to their new companion. "By all means, Mister…?" she trailed off uncertainly.
"Teague," he offered immediately, a frown playing around the corner of his lips as soon as he had done so.
Teague? Lucinda frowned inwardly. She knew that name from somewhere, didn't she? It sounded so familiar, yet the reason eluded her.
Mister Teague recovered quickly, his hands moving restlessly about. "I couldn't help but notice the both of you admiring this dress, but you," he turned to Lucinda, "hesitated. Why is that, Miss...?"
"Maplethorpe," she supplied, not caring to correct the 'Miss' part. "And I hesitated because it's very plain to see that I would look silly in this dress."
He frowned slightly at her name, but continued on. "You fancy it though, don't you?"
"Of course," she frowned. "It's a very lovely dress, but I—"
He shook his head, causing one of his braids to slip free, which he immediately pushed behind an ear. "If you want something," he said lowly, a strange near-growl lacing his voice, "you don't take your eyes off it, no matter the circumstance nor the consequences."
"That may be all well and good for you, Mister Teague," Lucinda huffed, "but I would look like a playacting child in this gown."
"You must admit," Agatha finally joined the conversation, "she is rather more petite than the sort of woman who would normal wear this dress."
"Doesn't matter," Mister Teague shook his head again, loosing more braids. "If you truly want something, you find a way to fit it into your life."
Lucinda narrowed her eyes—she was quickly losing her patience, and discussing a dress she wanted but could not have was not improving her mood. "What would you do then?" she snapped at the interloper.
He smiled at her flash of temper—a gesture that was eerily familiar for some reason—and motioned toward the dress. "Take the sleeves further up the arms, letting them drape from your elbows, thin out the fullness of the skirts a little, lower the bodice about an inch, and have the silk done in a bold, vibrant color. Red, perhaps."
Lucinda tried to picture it in her head, but she kept getting stuck on his suggestion for color. "Red? That's quite scandalous for a lady, isn't it?"
Agatha leaned close so that only she could hear. "You're a widow now, what cares have you for scandal? You told me you were a free woman—doesn't that mean you can wear whatever color you want? Besides, his suggestions sound lovely."
"And just bordering on inappropriate," she hissed back.
"I guarantee," Mister Teague interrupted the quiet battle, "if you cut a dress like that, you will look every inch the woman you are."
Aggie chose that moment to finally gasp at their companion's unconventional bluntness, but Lucinda found herself oddly charmed. And she had to admit that, for a man, he had excellent taste, knew precisely what looked best on a woman. If she followed his direction, she would no doubt end up with a dress that actually flattered her for once.
"You're quite bold, Mister Teague," Lucinda smiled, "but I find that I rather like it."
And so they continued around the shop, critiquing gowns for the better part of an hour, until Lucinda had the beginnings of a completely new wardrobe rather than just the one dress they had come in for.
Jack found himself strangely at peace as he watched the two ladies talk to the dressmaker. He was still itching to escape the feminine prison, but he was rather enjoying the company of Lady Whetherton and Miss Maplethorpe. Especially Miss Maplethorpe—she was an interesting conundrum: calm and demur as any lady one moment, spitting nails and bossing people about the next. If he hadn't come to Nevis with the intention to raid it, he would have been happy to give this woman much more attention.
"Mister Teague?" the woman in question interrupted his thoughts.
Jack frowned inwardly as he heard his chosen alias once more. What had possessed him to go by his father's name—the very name he had so staunchly refused as a child? It wasn't exactly a safe alias either, though it had been some years since anyone had feared coming face to face with the infamous Captain Teague. Still, it didn't have the pleasant, improbable anonymity as his usual standby: Smith.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts—even he didn't understand how his mind worked sometimes. "Miss Maplethorpe?" he turned to his companion, affecting the best 'polite smile' he could.
She considered him for a moment, then turned her attention back to Lady Whetherton, who was locked into negotiations with the dressmaker. "Can I confide in you?" she asked after a moment, still turned away from him.
"Absolutely," he replied, surreptitiously admiring the curve of her shoulders and the gentle slope of her back. He'd been without a woman for so long, and she was a fine one indeed.
"It's not really the clothing that I'm looking forward to," she turned back toward him, an absent smile curling the corners of her lips. "It could be anything of fine value and I would be happy to have it. I simply love getting new things, no matter how impractical. Does that make me greedy?"
He returned her smile in truth, uncaring that others would see the silver and gold scattered about his teeth. "No, milady," Jack replied, "I believe that makes you interesting."
The woman was more pirate than she realized. There was an honest charm about her, a boldness that others of her station would not dare to affect. And, though he couldn't attest to wanderlust, she certainly had the lust for treasure—each new gown had lit her eyes with something fierce and demanding. Even after he had decided that she could not merit more attention under the circumstances, he found himself insatiably curious. This was not a lass one walked away from—and when had he ever given heed to limitations?
Which was why, when she proposed that they leave the details to Lady Whetherton and quietly slip out of the shop, he followed her lead. He was curious and certainly not above using his new companion as an excuse to flee the dressmaker's.
They wandered the streets together, collecting scandalized looks from passersby.
"I never thought I'd get out of there!" Miss Maplethorpe breathed.
"You're lucky," Jack chuckled. "I was stuck for nigh on three hours."
She looked appropriately horrified by that revelation, but the expression quickly gave way to a smile. "What business does a man such as yourself have in a dressmaker's shop anyway?"
"None, apparently." He smiled dashingly. "Actually, I was hoping to get a dress for a friend of mine."
"A friend?" she frowned. "A lady friend, you mean?"
Jack didn't even bother covering his snort. "I should certainly hope so."
The young Miss shook her head. "It doesn't seem very proper."
He found it amazing that she could make such comments while continually doing things herself that could not be considered proper. "I think it would seem even less proper if it were not for a lady friend," he replied quickly.
She thought about it for a moment, then laughed. "That's wicked of you to say! Are you always so sharp witted?"
Jack nodded, a smirk twisting his lips. "Much to the annoyance of those with whom I sail."
She laughed, clutching at something hidden in the folds of her skirt. "Mister Teague, you are, without a doubt, the most curious man I have ever met."
More so than she would ever realize.
A/N: Anyone else starting to feel that Jack has poor impulse control?
I'm having issues with the language, since I don't usually write things set so many centuries ago and I really have trouble with dialects, but I'm doing my best. Jack was rather well-spoken for a pirate though, so I don't feel like I'm too far off the mark.
Please Review! I will respond eventually.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything recognizable as having come from Disney's Pirates of the Caribbean.