Isabelle let her instincts take over. She fled the library and rushed into the dark storm that was pummeling Port Royal. One look out over the harbor revealed ships bobbing angrily in the violent sea, masts rocking to the rhythm the storm beat upon their hulls. She did not stop when she heard glass shatter behind her. She assumed it was the remainder of the snifter of brandy and Cutler had hurled it at her in an attempt to stop her. But she was too afraid to stop. She raced into the garden and disappeared down one of the many paths. She tripped and fell into a deep mud puddle that had pooled in the lush grass. She felt the rain saturate her gown and seep into her slippers. She sobbed miserably, full of fear and anger, but she would not stop.
"ISABELLE!!!" Cutler's voice carried over the sound of the storm and she knew he was coming after her. She struggled to regain her feet and ran deeper into the garden. She could get lost down there and Cutler would be none the wiser. Who knows these gardens better than me? She rushed towards the orchards and nearly stumbled again, catching herself on the rock wall that surrounded the fruit trees. She looked down the hill to where a few lights in Port Royal flickered through open shutters. She couldn't go there. Who would help her? Certainly no one would open their doors to a ragged, muddy and soaked woman. Certainly no one would invite her in, especially with how she must look, blood streaming down her face and staining the backs of her hands and the front of her dress where it had dripped off her face. Even if someone would open their door to the likes of her, surely they wouldn't open it to Isabelle Beckett, the sister of the man who was ruining their lives. She walked as fast as she could through the orchard and stood beside one of the pear trees, grasping a low hanging branch in her had to steady herself. What was she to do? She thought momentarily of India and of Kapil. Why was it in only in her darkest hours that she thought of her closest friend; one who had been driven from her by Cutler.
Friends are a hard commodity and hardly trafficked by the company.
I'd hate to think I'd lost your friendship in being gone.
Isabelle's hand flew to her dress pocket where she carried the crown that Mr. Norrington had given her after the initial attack on the head quarters the night he'd escorted her home, the night they'd agreed to be friends.
What are friends for?
She would take a chance. Thunder cracked overhead and to Isabelle she had never heard a sound so ferocious. It reminded her of the sound trees made when they were felled or of gun fire. She glanced back over her shoulder and thought she saw torches being borne through the dark garden; Cutler would have turned out Mr. Mercer and a few trusted others to look for Isabelle. She knew Mercer was out there and he was dearly hoping to bring back the girl for his master. Isabelle took off as fast as she could. The crown was now in her fist and she pressed the slowly warming piece of metal into her palm. She dared not look back and made her way down the back garden path and to the gate. She fumbled with the latch and burst into the lane. She knew James Norrington had taken the abandoned manor of one of the aristocrats that had left Port Royal during the winter months and she now made her way up the road. She used the servants' path and slipped and slid along the muddy jungle trail towards the side door of the big house. She saw a few lights still flickering through the shuttered windows and hoped that Mr. Norrington was not only home, but still awake. She did not think his servants would invite her in. She was about to step from the bushes when a large black horse thundered up the drive. She recognized Mr. Mercer's figure as he leapt up the stairs to the front door two at a time and rapped loudly upon it. She saw him say something to the doorman and wait until the Admiral came to the door. She saw Mr. Mercer speak with Admiral Norrington, who nodded. Mercer went back down the stairs as the door was shut behind him. He looked in the hedges beside the front walk and then mounted his horse and rode down the road. Isabelle inhaled sharply, unaware that she had been holding her breath. What had Mercer wanted? Then it came to her. Cutler had probably thought that she would flee to Norrington and had sent Mercer to look for her at the house. Mr. Norrington's house keeper would sooner hang than allow a muddy man into her clean hall and had kept him outside, but if Mr. Mercer had told James Norrington that Isabelle had fled the house or was lost and walking in the storm then James Norrington would turn out himself to search for her. She heard a door slam in the back of the house and just caught a tall shadow of a figure go down the back path towards the stables. Isabelle trudged through the dense undergrowth and waited for a crack of lightening to split the sky to see who the figure was. She sighed in relief when she saw that it was James Norrington. She shivered as the wind howled and she moved as fast as she was able to the dark door of the stable. What would he say? She laughed softly and then stood shivering beneath the eave of the stable roof. In the lantern light in the barn she saw James Norrington carrying tack to a great bay stallion.
"James?" Her voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat and called his name again, this time catching his attention. He turned and nearly dropped his tack. She leaned heavily against the doorway as he stared at her, her vision swam and she thought for a moment that there were two men, two James Norrington's in the barn. Suddenly he was across the barn and had her caught up against him.
"Isabelle? Isabelle, what happened?" He asked as he pushed a piece of wet hair from her face. "Wait, don't answer now…let's just get you up to the house. I'll send Samuel to your brother to tell him I've got you."
"No." She shook her head and grasped James cape in her fist. She saw the blood on the back of her hands, thin and faint looking and mixed with Caribbean mud. I must look deranged! But he can't tell Cutler, not yet. "Not Cutler, don't tell him…" She shuddered again and James swept her up in his arms and carried her into his house.
"Mrs. Reynolds! I need blankets and hot water!" He shouted as he came through the back door. He brought Isabelle directly to the front parlor and set her down in front of the fire. The housekeeper came in and saw the admiral kneeling before the most pathetic wraith she'd ever seen. He was in the process of chafing her hands and she set the blankets beside the admiral.
"The water will be just a moment." She said staring at Isabelle.
"Thank you Mrs. Reynolds. See to it that no one disturbs us. No one is to enter this room save you and no one is to leave the house until I say otherwise."
"Of course Admiral." The woman curtsied, but did not look at her master. She stared at Isabelle, whose teeth were chattering loudly in the silence of the parlor. "I'll bring in the tea tray for you. She looks chilled right through."
"And see to it that no one speaks of this." She nodded and shut the door on Isabelle and Norrington.
"I had no where else to go." Isabelle whispered. "I'm sorry…"
"Don't be." Norrington tossed his long coat aside and reached for Isabelle's fisted right hand. He began to rub that hand as well, hoping to drive some warmth into it as he had the other. He turned her hand palm up and opened her stiff fingers to reveal the crown still clasped tight in her hand, the relief of the coin pressed into her palm.
"What's this?"
"Don't you remember? 'A crown for your thoughts.'" Isabelle laughed, but there was no joy in it. "It's been a sort of good luck charm for me….until tonight." He looked up at her and watched as she wiped at her face with the back of her left hand.
"What happened?"
Isabelle shook her head and brushed at her face again. "I should go…I shouldn't have come here…" She tried to rise but was restrained by James Norrington.
"You're in no condition to leave and the weather is far too gruesome to be out in. Now tell me what happened." She shook her head and looked away before she took a shuddering breath. She was having second thoughts and the bravado with which she'd gone to James Norrington's house had left her in a great rush.
Should I tell him? Should I tell him about what I can do? Should I tell him about Cutler? If I do tell him, how much do I reveal? Her thoughts raced wildly as she stared at the same spot on the mantelpiece. James took the time to stare at her. Her face was a mess. The skin was a pale, ghostly white, her eyes red with tears and glistening with those still unshed. A small cut sent blood streaming down her face freely. He could see where the blood was smeared where she had tried to wipe her face. He pulled out his handkerchief and reached to wipe some of the blood away. She pulled away from him but he would not be dissuaded. Gently he wiped the slowly drying blood from her face and she shivered.
"I didn't know where else to turn…" She shivered again and James reached down beside the sofa to grasp one of the thick blankets that Mrs. Reynolds had brought in. He threw it about Isabelle's shoulders and tucked it beneath her chin. Mrs. Reynolds knocked again and James went to the door to open it for his housekeeper who carried in a large tea tray. James shut the door behind Mrs. Reynolds when she left and then went to pour tea for both him and Isabelle. Isabelle took the tea gratefully but her hands shook, the sound of the china cup rattling against the saucer joining the sound of crackling logs. She sipped slowly at the tea. It started to spread a slow warmth through her very core but she hissed reluctantly at the heat and the bite of the brew as it touched her lip. She sighed as she looked back at James who now stood leaning against the mantelpiece.
"He was angry with me. I've never seen him so angry." Isabelle said softly. She saw anger boiling in the depths of James Norrington's eyes as he set his cup aside and poured hot water from the tea pot into a shallow bowl that Mrs. Reynolds had put on the tray. He dipped his kerchief into the water before cleaning off the rest of Isabelle's face. As he did so he looked at the swollen bruise beginning to form on her face. The skin of her nose had a cut near her nostril and beneath it was a similar cut upon her lip. At the other corner of her mouth was a fainter bruise, made more visible by the clammy pallor of her skin. She turned her head and hissed as the fabric of his kerchief brushed across her hurts. He held her chin in his hand to keep her from moving and looked again at the place where she had obviously been struck by something.
When he'd come to the door, Mr. Mercer had said she'd gone out on a ride and must have been stuck in the storm. Lord Beckett had been worried when she hadn't returned and had turned the house out in the worst of the storm to search for his sister, fearful that she had been unhorsed and lay injured in the road somewhere. But the more James looked at the bruises and cuts on her face, the more the feeling that something was wrong overwhelmed him. The injuries to her face were deliberate. The bruising looked as if it were taking on the imprint of a heavy signet ring. It didn't take a leap of the imagination to realize that the cuts on her face had been caused by the settings that would hold a large stone to the piece of jewelry. He folded his kerchief and held it to the place on her face where her lip and nose still bled. Her hand came up and touched his as she fumbled to hold the kerchief to her own face. He let his hand linger a moment, the warmth of his hand seeping into her icy cold one. She had lowered her tea cup to her lap and he took it from her and leaned forward to place it back on the tray.
"He was angry with me. I've never seen him so angry."
He shook his head and then he let his mind go down the darkest path he could fathom.
"Did Lord Beckett strike you?" She brought her eyes slowly to meet his. "Did he?" He saw the uncertainty in her gaze and though she shook her head the tears in her eyes said otherwise. He watched as one large tear slid across her pale cheek and disappeared into his kerchief. Quickly, he sat on the small couch beside her and pulled her into his protective embrace, tucking her head beneath his chin as she cried out all her frustration. He finally realized she was talking through her sobs.
"He stuck me! He accused me of plotting to assassinate him!" She hiccupped as she pulled away from James and looked up at him, her face soaked with tears anew. "He's mad! He's completely mad!" She held her hand to her mouth and bit down on her knuckle in an attempt to stop her tears and hysterics. "I should not say such things."
"It is good you have said such things! You can not fight him off if you are alone!" He said stroking her shoulder. "As you said, he is mad. You can not fight a mad man on your own."
"I tried. I've tried for so long…" She looked into the fire and sighed deeply. "I had no where else to turn….I didn't mean to burden you with this but…"
"I'm pleased you felt you could come to me." James said. "I wish the circumstances were different." She stared at her hands where she grasped the kerchief and he tucked another errant lock of hair behind her ear. Her nose and mouth were still bleeding, but not as badly as they had been before. He touched her hand where she held the kerchief and made a motion to hold the cloth back to her face.
"How bad is it?" She asked, her voice thick and slightly slurred where she was speaking through the folded fabric.
"Not horribly so. It will stop soon enough."
She barked a short laugh. "Wouldn't that be awkward? How would I explain the need to go to a barber for stitches?" She giggled a bit as she looked at him. "What must your maid think?!"
"Mrs. Reynolds must have wondered which cabbage patch I plucked you from." James said smiling tentatively at her.
"Goodness, I do look a fright don't I?" She looked at the front of her dress which was stained with grass and mud. Her sleeves were also covered in mud and both her hands were stained with blood where she'd wiped at her face on her run through the garden. The dress was ruined, but she really didn't care. She laughed again and then shook her head. "You must think I'm mad."
"I think you're very strong; to have held out as long as you must have. How long has this been going on?"
"What?" She avoided his glance and focused instead on looking at the folded cloth she'd been holding to her face, studying the blood stains as if they were tea leaves.
"The beatings? This can't be a recent development."
"He's never struck me this hard before….never where it would really leave a visible mark…"
"What of this?" He asked touching the opposite corner of her mouth.
"Last night." She answered with a shrug.
"And these?" His warm fingers brushed across the faint bruises he'd seen on her neck the night before at the ball. Isabelle closed her eyes as his fingers ghosted across the skin on her throat, the heat from them licking at her like a summer breeze. Oh, how she wished he'd never remove his fingers. Her very insides seemed to melt like wax and it was all she could do to concentrate on what he was asking.
"That happened last night before the ball." She said softly. She could feel James' anger rising and she turned to face him abruptly. "You mustn't get the wrong idea, he really isn't all that violent."
"Shall I fetch a mirror?" James asked her, his voice was sharp. "You have three bruises upon your face! What happens the next time? What if he strikes you hard enough to break something?" Isabelle thought briefly of the table that had broken beneath her weight this evening but knew that Norrington was talking about Cutler breaking her bones and not furniture.
"This is the first time he's ever struck me this hard."
"He should never strike you." James said grasping her hand. "Don't defend his actions Isabelle, I know he's your brother, but you should not feel guilty and defend a monster like him."
"He is my brother!" She said rising to her feet to stare down at him. "He's my keeper! I can not defy him, nor can I condemn him. He's been under a great deal of stress of late…"
"That's still not an excuse to take it out on you."
"What can I do?"
Leave him. The thought raced from James to her and she shook her head slowly.
"I can't leave him. I have no where else to turn." She sighed again and went to the window. The rain was beginning to slacken and the wind had died down.
"Stay here tonight, you can return when the storm has fully abated." James said as he rose to follow her to the window. "You should rest..."
"I can't stay, I can't stay and endanger you."
"I'll tell them I found you on the road and you were weak with fatigue."
"No. They'll suspect I told you what happened." Her voice was flat. "I'll return to the house."
"You don't have to." He said placing a hand upon her shoulder.
"Yes I do." She turned to look up at him and he saw a light in her eyes the like of which he'd seen only a few times before. "I have to fight my battles. I can't run from them forever."
James knew the look on her face, it was one of determination. He had seen it many times on Elizabeth Swann's face.
"You have to learn to pick your fights…"
"I will. But this is one that I have to make a stand on. I can't keep living like this." Her eyes were hard and James sighed. There was no way he was going to be able to stop her, the least he could do was try and protect her. How he wanted to be her champion…. She reached out and grasped his arm. "I won't make it in leaps and bounds, I promise. As you said, I can't fight a war against a mad man on my own. But I can do my best to fight him, if only a little at a time."
"Would you like me to walk with you?" She was brave, there was no way to deny that, but he would still offer his services to her any way he could.
"No." Isabelle said softly as she shook her head and looked back to the kerchief she still held.
"At least take the blanket with you."
"No." She said with more force. "I'd have to explain where I got it. I'll leave it behind." She looked back up at him with a crooked grin. She was trying not to split her lip again. "I've ruined your kerchief I'm afraid. It'll be no use to you. I'll send a new one."
"No need." He said with a smile. He felt as if it were his responsibility to protect her. He desperately wanted her to stay. Something in the back of his mind toyed with the idea of kissing her, she looked beautiful in spite of the bruises and he remembered the night the headquarters had been burned. He'd wanted her then too. How was it they were always surrounded with tragedy? "You're a brave woman, did you know that?"
"Not so very…I'm a scared little church mouse in the big jungle." She looked back out the window and saw lightening flicker in the distance. "It's time this little church mouse went home and stood up to her demons."
"Are you sure you wish to go it alone?" James asked again, hoping against hope that she had changed her mind.
"Yes." She handed him back his kerchief and he pressed the crown back into her hand. She looked back up at him puzzled and he smiled.
"You said it was a sort of good luck charm. Let's hope that you've run all the bad luck out of it and this is all as a bad dream for you."
"I hope so to." She turned and slowly walked from the room. He let her out the back door and watched as she skirted the house and traipsed across the lawn. She raised her arm in a wave when she reached the tree line and then disappeared into the woods like a ghost.
Isabelle had just reached the back garden gate when she heard a horse come up behind her.
"There you are." The Scottish bur was unmistakable and Isabelle shuddered. The rain had started anew and she was soaked again and the last thing she wanted was to be stuck in the storm beside Mr. Mercer. His thoughts were dark enough, she needn't be out in the worst of the weather with him to add fuel to the fire.
"Yes, here I am. What of it?" She asked irritably. "I'm cold, I'm wet and I wish to go back to my home."
"I'll take you." He reached a hand down as if to boost her up behind him.
"No thank you, I'll walk through the back garden. It'll be much quicker." She opened the gate and made to shut it, but Mr. Mercer slipped through. He grasped her arm, as a jailor would grasp a violent inmate and escorted her roughly up the trail.
"Where have you been? Your brother was quite worried." But Isabelle didn't answer. Mercer guided her through the big back door and across the foyer floor. Cutler came out of the library looking irritable. He had a new waist coat on. Nice to see he cared enough about me to race into the storm without a care for his appearance. Here I am looking like I've been horse dragged and he looks the picture of high society. Shows our differences quite a bit, doesn't it?
"Isabelle!" Cutler glared at her and she returned the angry stare. "Where did you go?"
But Isabelle didn't answer him either. She shook Mr. Mercer off of her and made for the stairs. "You'll not retire until I say so!"
"I'll retire right now." Isabelle shot back. "I'm cold, I'm tired and dirty, and my face is surely still bleeding." She started up the stairs. "No, thank you, I think I'll retire and clean myself up."
"This is all your fault Isabelle!" Cutler shouted after her. "This is all on you!" Isabelle's shoulder's sagged and then she straightened before she turned back to him.
"If that's how you wish to see it, my lord, then that's how it shall be." She turned her back on him and went to her room where she stripped from her wet clothes and donned the warmest night gown she owned before burrowing deep beneath the covers and fell quickly asleep.