Chapter II

How Lovely

"Beauty's the thing that counts in women; red lips and black eyes are better than brains."

– Mary J. Elmendorf

۞۞۞

"Evenin'."

He merely nodded, draining his tankard. His plan vanished with the rum, becoming nothing more than dregs that remained at the bottom of his mind.

In all his years he had never gotten what one could call a decent look at a whore. Granted, upon making lievtenant Charles, his second oldest brother, had decided that the best way to celebrate his promotion was to treat him to an evening at a brothel. But the women there – clean, well-spoken, and tastefully dressed if a bit risqué – were nothing like the women of Tortuga. Now that a harlot was sitting mere inches from him, he had regrets about not seeing one sooner. She was, simply put, repulsive. He would have liked to have begun his analysis with her attire, but instead found his eyes fixated on something much more unnerving. He had, of course, been raised knowing that it was rude to stare, however, when a woman was wearing a bodice so low it was nearly nonexistent and had her – in this case, moderately sized – bosom hoisted up as high as it would go, he found it difficult not to gawk.

When he was finally able to rip his gaze from her chest region, he took in what could have once been considered a dress that was a horrid shade of green. It was as if she had deliberately chosen the most unbecoming color for herself. Upon closer inspection, he could make out several purple splotches against the verdant fabric – no doubt from when she had, in a drunken stupor, dribbled wine down her front. How lovely.

Rather than observe her face next, he moved his eyes to the top of her head. At first it appeared to be nothing but a great, dark blur, but quickly the mass began to take shape. Tangles of frizzing curls had been piled sloppily atop her head, though several pieces had broken free of the bird's nest and were hanging in sparse clumps about her face.

And that face…

When he looked upon that face, the quintessential prostitute started back at him. From beneath a pair of heavily painted brows, dark eyes regarded him hungrily from behind a black mask of kohl, the corners of them puckering slightly as she smiled. A faux beauty mark hovered beneath her left eye, boldly glaring at him. On each cheek bloomed twin vermilion patches that only succeeded in making her nose appear more prominent. Lastly, he came to her mouth and barely concealed a grimace. Bright red, it curved to form a smirk, revealing teeth that were a pale yellow from poor hygiene, occasionally spotted here and there with rouge from her lips.

"Y'know, I can't do my job if I dunno what it is I'm s'pposed t'be doin'."

The low, mildly amused voice dragged him out of the depths of his mind, bringing his scrutiny to an abrupt end. The whore widened her sickening grin, no doubt mistakenly assuming that she had caught him in the midst of undressing her mentally. Far from it, he thought, cringing internally at the film of sweat that covered her chest, neck, and visage, gleaming in the candle-lit tavern. He cleared his throat.

"My apologies, madam," he offered uncomfortably. "I'm afraid my mind was elsewhere."

She simply laughed – rather, made a low, humming noise that could be taken as a laugh. Odd when he had been expecting her to bray or cackle or, at the very least, giggle idiotically.

"'Madam?'" she snorted. "Lovey, if I were a madam, I'd be runnin' my own place an' sendin' onna my girls over here t'entertain you. But, seein' how that most certainly isn't th' case, you are my employer. An' as my employer there's no need t'apologize."

He was taken aback by her bluntness, though logic told him that he should not have been, given that she must have been raised on this squalid island where pirates roamed and whores were plentiful. Here one did whatever was necessary to survive, including sacrificing one's own honor to sleep with loathsome creatures such as himself. Then again, despite an ethnic abundance, honor held no meaning on Tortuga.

"Very well," he began, taking care in selecting his words. "What will you have me call you, if 'madam' is not to your liking?"

"Oh, I get t'chose this time?" she murmured to herself, leaving him to wonder what she meant by that. "Hmm… S'ppose I'll be Yvette, t'night. I've always fancied that name. S'French, innit?" she asked, suddenly looking up at him and clearly expecting his input.

"I believe so," he replied warily. What on Earth was she playing at, giving him a false name?

"I've always wanted t'visit France," she said thoughtfully before letting out a short laugh. "O'course, how likely is that?"

"Highly unlikely, I would think," he muttered dryly, finding her uncouth manner to be slightly irksome. Perhaps insults would be the quickest way to rid himself of her? He watched, unmoved as her painted face darkened at his frigid sarcasm.

"You're one t'talk," she snapped, pointedly eyeing his ragged appearance. "Thinkin' you can get t'know me jus' by lookin' at my face – tell me, have y'taken a gander at yerself as of late? I'm no braggart, but I'm a right pleasant sight next t'you. An' I'll have you know that normally I'd hold my tongue in situations like this…unless, o'course, I could tell straight away that th' person who insulted me was nothin' more than a mis'rable, penniless cad what thought he could get a free romp outta me."

He bristled, feeling his irritation melt away only to be replaced by seething hatred. How dare she, a whore, have the nerve to remark on his countenance? He no longer cared if he offended her, for she, who knew nothing yet spoke with such confidence, had plunged her verbal knife into him more deeply than she could have imagined.

His voice was quiet, but with an dark edge, as if he was speaking through the threat of impending fury.

"Tell me, Miss Yvette, had it occurred to you that I have no choice in the matter? Did it ever cross your simple mind that I despise having to sit in this hovel, drowning myself in rum and accepting the invitations of whores? Did you take any one of those notions into consideration before you decided to belittle me so, or were you simply acting on impulse, as I suspect?"

He stood abruptly, not allowing her to answer.

"And as far as my being penniless is concerned…" He reach into his tattered naval coat and unearthing several coins, thrusting them in her stern face. "How, pray tell, did I acquire those drinks?"

That said, he turned on his heel and left her where she was: staring dumbly at an empty bottle of rum.

۞۞۞

Notes

Charles, his second oldest brother – once again, more of James's past that will be revealed at a later date. Hopefully it doesn't seem out of place here.

"Oh, I get to chose this time…" – of course, we all know what she means. Yes, that's right: role-playing! It did exist during the Colonial era, and besides, I can't help but get the feeling that, on Tortuga, anything is possible. Also, this line helps to put emphasis on Norrington's (for lack of better word) ignorance as far as women and sex go. This is not to say that I think he's a virgin, just that, while he would not be completely unaware of sexual deviancies, he would (or used to) consider himself too respectable to actually indulge in anything of the sort.

Yvette – just to dispel any confusion: No, this is not her real name. That little matter will be cleared up eventually, however. Erm, kinda. You'll see what I mean soon enough.

A Simple Request/Reminder from the Author

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn't up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing "Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don't write anymore, I beg you" you aren't helping me anymore than people who say "OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!" are. So please, help me out, but be kind about it if you can. Merci in advance!