Authoress' Note: Good news everyone! This is not the second to last chapter anymore. I've lost control of this story and am dragging it on for another 3 more chapters. That should make people happy. :) I was wondering if people would be interested in an epilogue to these vignettes. I wasn't planning on writing one, but an idea came to me on the bus ride home last week that I could potentially write a little something set a few years after the end of these vignettes. What do you think of that? It would be ace if people could comment on that in their reviews. Thanks! Enjoy!

The First Loss

The edge of my vision blurs as I stare at the intricate lace detailing on Governor Swann's cuff. It is all I can do to avoid looking at his face, a face that seems to draw me in more than anything else in the drafty church. For a moment I turn my attention to Elizabeth who leans on my arm for support attempting to muffle her cries in a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Her eyes are red rimmed and glossy, and she dabs at them without feeling as the priest preaches in an unbearably loud pitch about the saving grace of Christ. His voice seems to ricochet off the walls, and I long to cover my ears at its harshness.

My eyes slide over to the casket again, sweeping across the Governor's sleeping visage. He looks so calm, so peaceful. The absolute opposite of those he has left behind. The booming priest and the weepy congregation somehow do not feel right, and I wonder if Elizabeth can feel this as well. Somehow they are out of place amongst the steady calm that was Weatherby Swann's life.

It had been that way at my own father's funeral, a congregation of people sobbing on about a good life gone. But they hadn't known him for the monster he was. I hadn't even known him in the way my mother did as she cowered under his abusive hand. I close my eyes on these painful memories, and the casket closes with a bitter thud of finality.

Rain begins to fall lightly as we exit the church on the rocky crag of hill overlooking the shining Caribbean Sea. Even the angels are crying it seems; at least, the one walking next to me is. Her face is veiled in black gauze that sticks to her cheeks as the tears fall. Our carriage, shrouded in black, is the only one that follows the horse-drawn hearse down the hill to a simple cemetery. Each drop of rain creates indentions in the dirt as two men of the town labor in vain in a hole slowly filling with rainwater. They lower the casket carefully, and stand back, doffing their caps respectfully despite the weather.

The priest says something about death and dust, but I cannot hear him above the thunder ringing through the heavens. He makes the sign of the cross over the freshly covered grave, shuts his Bible hastily as the rain pours harder and makes his way through the headstones to the kissing-gate beyond. I can feel Elizabeth shivering next to me, and I place a comforting arm around her waist.

Grasping her by the arm, intending to guide her, I say, "Come, Elizabeth. You'll catch cold out here if we stay any longer. . ."

She remains rooted to the spot her eyes fixed on the headstone with her father's name carved onto its front.

"Elizabeth, please. . ." I say urgently, pressing her arm more firmly and glancing up at the ever-darkening sky, only to blink away heavy raindrops caught in my eyelashes.

Suddenly, her legs buckle beneath her, and she falls out of my grasp across the darkened earth now running with rivulets of rainwater. New sobs rise afresh as her tears mix with the freezing rain pouring in sheets from above.

I stoop, gathering my wife in my arms. Her arms come to rest about my neck as she cries ever harder into my shoulder. Limbs numb from the cold all I can think of is getting into the carriage. Once inside I continue to hold her in my arms, her wails mingling with the pounding of rain on the roof. Upon our arrival at the house I head straight for our bedroom, calling for Betsy. Elizabeth's crying has ceased, and she looks up at me with unfocused eyes. Her teeth chatter together of their own accord as she shivers in the chill air.

"Is the missus all right, Sir?" Betsy asks her brow knit with worry as she goes about warming water for a bath.

"Don't worry Betsy, please," I say, laying Elizabeth on the four-poster where she proceeds to curl into a ball. "It's been a trying day for her, and I think a hot bath and fresh clothes will do her nicely."

"Yes, Sir."

I place a kiss on Elizabeth's damp hair and leave Betsy to her work, pausing only once to glance at my wife's small form trembling on the bed.

---

That evening I eat supper alone. Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen, but I can feel her presence around me as though she is sitting at the end of this very same table. Later, as I retire to our bedroom for some early rest I catch Thomas on his way down the stairs.

"Thomas, have you seen Elizabeth?"

"No, Sir," Thomas responds with a shake of his head, "I haven't seen her myself, but Betsy reckons her to be lurking about in the library. We thought it best not to bother her right now."

I sigh. "That's fine. Thank you, Thomas."

"Of course, Sir."

Wearily, I enter our bedroom and cross to the bureau where I place my coat on a hook, along with the hat and the powdered wig that I despise so much. I bend over to slip off my boots, and upon straightening I glance at myself in the looking glass upon the wall opposite me. Shadowed eyes, made older in the wane light, stare back at me. I blink once, and startled, I turn to face Elizabeth who stands in the centre of the room, wearing her nightgown, her arms crossed and her face stained with tears. I did not hear her enter.

"James," she whispers, her bottom lip quivering.

I go to her and wrap her up in my arms. She rests her cheek against my shoulder, sniffling as the darkness settles in from outside. Her hair feels like silk against my rough hands, and I stroke it gently, shushing her as a mother would a child. When she quiets again I make ready for bed. She lies down, and when I slip under the covers next to her a few minutes later she stirs from a semi-conscious state. Her hand collides with mine, and she grasps it tightly, pulling it close against her heart, which I can feel beating beneath her nightgown. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply.

"James, what did my father say to you that day we went to visit him?"

"He said I should love you, mourn with you, and help you move on."

She nods, but does not open her eyes. "Whatever happened to your father, James?"

The question startles me at first, and when I do not respond right away Elizabeth opens her eyes again. "Tell me about him, James. What kind of a man was he? Surely he must have been like you, noble and loving. . ."

I shake my head. "I did not know my father as you knew yours, Elizabeth. He was a distant figure in my life and much more concerned with my elder brother. He hated me for joining the navy, and when I was offered a place on the Dauntless I jumped at the chance to escape him."

"I'm sorry, James," Elizabeth whispers, her voice strangled, "I had no idea."

"Don't apologise. We can't choose our parents, and besides, he's been dead for a few years now anyway."

"And you don't have any regrets concerning him? You never wish that you'd had the chance to redeem yourself in your father's eyes?"

My lips tip into a frown, and I squeeze Elizabeth's hand in mine, pondering. Finally, shaking my head, I respond, "No, I have no regrets. He was a stubborn man, and no matter what I did I would not be able to please him. What's done is done."

Satisfied with my answer Elizabeth pulls the covers up around her and closes her eyes, still clutching my hand to her chest. All is silent for some time, until out of the darkness a quiet sound emerges.

"I miss him, James."

Elizabeth's voice is wrought with pain and thick with the cries I know she is forcing herself to swallow down. I reach toward her and draw her into my arms where she quivers violently though no tears come. After some time her tensed muscles relax against me, and she is finally able to sleep.

---

The following morning we visit Governor Swann's grave. The clouds have cleared up in the night and the sun is blindingly bright to the eyes. Little is said between the two of us as we stand side by side staring down at the headstone. Around us are the graves of other inhabitants of Port Royal. Some are crumbled with age, whilst others, like the Governor's, are covered with new soil, still dark from the overturned earth. I don't know what Elizabeth thinks of during that time. Perhaps she is remembering, or perhaps her mind is blank. She cries some days, and I know that those days I need to be closer to her than ever.

Every day afterward is a new challenge, and life is rough for a while, just as Elizabeth's father predicted. I watch in despair as Elizabeth becomes reclusive, turning away from me in her grief. I find myself hoping for some sort of sign that will tell me when every thing will be all right again; when my wife will look at me without those hollow eyes. Many times, in desperation, I have told her to go to the priest in an attempt to ease her pain, but she will not go, and I am helpless to her.

I arrive home one afternoon to find the house empty and silent. I know immediately where Elizabeth has gone. My heart sinks as I ride my horse up the hill to the stone church. This is the first time she has gone without me, and the fear of being pushed away is very real inside of me. My wife's lone figure rises up out of the mass of headstones. I push open the kissing-gate slowly and make my way toward her. She looks up as I approach and smiles. It is the first smile I have seen upon her face in months, and it is radiant.

"Are you well?" I ask gently, cautiously.

She nods and reaches out to me, enfolding her self in my embrace. After a few moments she steps back, her hands resting lightly on my chest. She looks utterly content, a stark contrast to the last few months. She gazes into my eyes for some time, and I search hers for any sign of the helplessness and unhappiness that had been present before. It seems to have gone out with the tide, and I hope that it will not come back in.

Elizabeth runs a slender finger over my lined forehead, smoothing it over. "Do not worry yourself so much, James. You knew I could not live like this forever. At some point I would run out of tears to cry. . ."