A/N: Sorry for randomly disappearing for almost two years. I had some really personal stuff that just completely blocked me up for a long time. As recompense, I give you a super sized chapter!
…a super sized chapter all about Weatherby Swann's backstory. So, the gift no one asked for.
Birds of a Feather
The Curse of the Black Pearl
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Face in the Mirror
Weatherby Swann always remembered the morning after he drank why he didn't like to drink. Sure, he would tell people it was because his own mother was a bit too friendly with the bottle. It wasn't a lie as that was what he had convinced himself the answer to be.
But the truth would always hit him too late: it was the bloody hangovers he couldn't stand. No amount of drink ever made up for the horror show that came next morning.
When he was younger, he felt more solace in overindulging because his wife, Katherine's hangovers were even worse. There was little in the world for which he would trade away those memories of the mornings they would laze in bed together, moaning and groaning in pain, and cursing their past selves for infecting such misery upon themselves.
He remembered so lovingly the way Katherine would bury her face into his arms to block out the light and noise. The room would fill with an elongated moan as her temples pounded and eyes stung from the pain of what rebellious rays of sunlight could worm their way through the dark, thick curtains. The maids knew not to open those curtains on hungover mornings upon pain of unemployment.
But Weatherby would hold her close through the pain and whisper comforting words in her ear. She would tremble in his arms like a rabbit as he felt sweat saturate the thin fabric of what nightgown he had managed to get her into the previous night.
While drink had always made Katherine particularly affectionate, it had an opposite effect on Weatherby. Katherine could barely keep her hands off him, while Weatherby seriously considered not wanting anyone to touch him maybe for the rest of his life.
As her body would be racked with pain the next day (and not just from the footlocker at the end of their bed that Drunk Katherine somehow always managed to slam a knee into) Weatherby knew it was a lost cause to get her to dress in the morning. That meant hungover mornings were usually proceeded by a lengthy song and dance the night before where he tried to get her to wear anything to bed as she attempted a clumsy seduction.
But no matter how many times she attempted to shed any form of clothing in her insistent attempts at affection from her husband in that unsober state, it usually resulted in the compromise that Katherine don one of the nightdresses that were meant for Weatherby's eyes only. Unfortunately, they would not remain unseen by anyone else as an awkward scene the next morning would endure from whatever poor maid had drawn the short straw to bring them breakfast. It was not uncommon for Katherine's maids to find a few extra coins in their next pay as a "thank you" for their discretion and to balm the more easily scandalized girls.
Despite the horrible way both Weatherby and Katherine felt those mornings, Weatherby held the memories most dear. It was because those were the mornings Weatherby and Katherine could just linger in bed together filling the hours with tenderness, soft words of love and comfort, and subtle indulgences of physical and emotional intimacy.
After all, they might as well enjoy the time while were trapped in that room until sober enough for proper company. His father had made it clear that Katherine was never to step foot outside her bedchambers in such a hungover state and as her husband, it was Weatherby's responsibility to prevent such improprieties.
One time during such a lecture, Weatherby had been a bit at his limit with his father and cheekily inquired about his own mother's public indecencies with the bottle.
The resultant black eye and broken nose made it very clear to Weatherby not to bring up Bartholomew's hypocrisy again.
But still, Weatherby very much enjoyed those mornings just holding and helping Katherine through the pain. Nursing her through those horrible ordeals was one of the few times where Weatherby could step up and be that heroic protector a husband was meant to be to his wife. Because as bad as Weatherby felt with his hangovers, nothing was worse to him than seeing his beloved Angel in such undignified disarray.
Plainly put, his wife could not handle her liquor. Standing just barely over five feet and having a body proportional to that deficiency, the very petite Katherine Skylark had practically no biological tolerance for alcohol. Her brother, Andrew Skylark had often joked that she was such a lightweight that a slight breeze could intoxicate her. It was one of the few points Andrew and Weatherby could agree upon, a thought Weatherby often would reflect upon whenever he had to hold back his wife's golden hair as she crouched over a chamber pot and displayed with far too vivid detail the last few meals she had consumed.
Even worse was Katherine's tendency to unintentionally cultivate that friendship with her chamber pot. The problem was that Katherine thought she could match Rebecca drink for drink, and Rebecca after their mother's death had taken the mantle of "Swann a bit too friendly with the bottle." Rebecca had the foresight to not indulge on the hourly basis that Joanna Swann mingled with drink, but when Rebecca drank, she drank like Noah nude in his tent after the flood.
…And Rebecca wondered why Weatherby didn't share her love for the absurdity of Biblical stories.
To everyone's surprise, Rebecca had quite the robust temperance for drink. She easily could put back more than any other men of society and liked to flaunt that fact. Weatherby didn't particularly mind as he knew she did it to seize any piece of control she could find in the male favoring world of British upper class. But when Katherine started emulating Rebecca with not even a quarter of Rebecca's liquoring holding ability, that was when it became a problem. It was only Weatherby's begging that she not accidentally murder his wife that tempered Rebecca's alcoholic intake.
Luckily, Nathaniel had come from a long family history of whiskey brewers, so Rebecca ended up finding more than one drinking buddy among the Swifts.
Weatherby could help but wonder how well Philip ended up holding his liqu-
"Governor? Are you alright?"
Blinking rapidly, Weatherby's mind clicked back to the audience sitting before him. Elizabeth and Commodore Norrington stared at him uncomfortably, both trying to pretend they weren't playing the nonsense game of how long can we avoid looking at each other?
He sighed and looked away from the small framed portrait on the bedside table that he had staring off mindlessly at. It was a picture of Katherine, painted only a few days before their wedding so he could always remember that beauty he first fell in love with.
Weatherby had always taken it on trips and propped it next to his bed anytime Katherine did not sleep at his side (whether be from trip or tiff.) After she had died, the memento became a near holy relic to him and he point blank refused to sleep anywhere unless he had the picture with him. This had led to a running joke in Port Royal concerning how Governor Swann would bring the portrait to grand balls and large celebrations lest he accidentally need to stay the night. Some wives took it like a champion and would intentionally have a servant set up a guest room with a grand place already ready and waiting for Weatherby adorned with flowers and candles, prepared for the portrait to sit on.
But to truly illustrate his devotion to his wife and her portrait, one had to turn to that time Weatherby Swann most horrified his children. They had been sailing to St Martin where some relatives of Philip lived, when Weatherby realized that the servants hadn't packed his wife's portrait. So rather than just go without for a few weeks like a mature, reasonable adult, he paid the ship's captain to turn the ship around and go back to Port Royal to get the picture.
That was the day that Weatherby proved to his children that yes, he really was a full-blooded Swann with all that it entailed.
But to Weatherby it was all worth it, because he needed that portrait at his side. He needed her at his side… And it was unimaginable the lengths he would go to if it meant he had his Angel next to him not in oils and parchment but flesh and bone.
And as he reluctantly looked back to Elizabeth, it felt like for the first time he truly appreciated how much Elizabeth took after her mother.
The mother who would hate what he was putting their daughter through.
It made sense that Weatherby Swann should feel horrible that morning: God was punishing him for going against everything Katherine and Rebecca had stood for. The heartbreak, the hangover, even his wake up call had been bloody miserable.
He had been woken by a horrible pounding on the door of his cabin (though Elizabeth would later report that she had tapped so lightly on the door that Norrington who had been looking in the other direction asked her when she was going to start knocking.)
Getting up out of bed and discussing the mess that was his daughter's love life was the last thing Weatherby Swann wanted the morning he nursed a hangover, but the pair insisted that there was something important they had to discuss. Though it took some time for Weatherby to understand that as it was near impossible in the bleariness of half awake and entirely in hangover hell state he was in.
Reluctantly he allowed the pair into the cabin once he had gained enough consciousness to realize that:
A – He was awake.
B – The events of last night were not some sort of farcical nightmare.
C – Apparently they were all about to march into battle based on the drumming tempo someone was banging inside his head.
It was clear to anyone that Weatherby was in rough shape. The curtains were drawn tightly but the sun still bore down on him hard. His face was white, looking like he was about to make a dash for the chamber pot at any moment. Opposite the image of power and authority, Weatherby hadn't bothered to even put his wig on or mask the loud moans and groans of pain his body punished him with for his overindulgence.
He made a mental note to find out the brand of whiskey the Commodore had allowed him to drink. Then upon their return to Port Royal ban the devil's drink and burn all stock of it in a giant bonfire like the King burning all the spinning wheels in Sleeping Beauty.
God, he was starting to sound like his father berating his mother.
Weatherby rubbed his pounding temples and sighed, "My apologies, I believe I lost track of what you were saying, Commodore. Would you mind going over that last part again?"
James gave an uncomfortable smile but consented. It was hard enough to admit once to the Governor of Port Royal your plan to avoid looking like the Governor's daughter cuckolded you with the town blacksmith. Norrington explaining it to his boss a second time was just humiliating.
Struggling through the fog of pain and misery, Weatherby listened to James' plan and watched the restless way Elizabeth shifted in her seat. She didn't add anything to Norrington's sermon in that eager way she would so improperly interrupt any conversation concerning an exciting idea. In fact, she wouldn't even look at the men. Instead, her eyes wandered all over: to the door, as if waiting for a disruption from the crew; at her hands when she wasn't busy biting her fingernails in the short unfashionable way Katherine had tried to train her out of; and even over at the small painting of Katherine.
"What would Katherine think about all of this?" Weatherby felt the question churn in his stomach. He quickly pushed it away, turning his attention back to Elizabeth. There was no need to worry about Katherine's opinion; she wasn't like Rebecca. Katherine would understand.
…Wouldn't she?
"The deception would only need to go on for a short while," Norrington continued his monologue. "But I truly think that it would be best if Miss Swann and Mister Turner were to be as separated during the courtship as much as possible."
Elizabeth's head jerked up and she looked as if she were about to object, but then she caught Norrington's eye. She didn't say anything, but nor could she stifle the angry sigh that escaped her throat.
Weatherby couldn't really blame her: he had easily come to the conclusion that the Commodore's plan was a stupid, pointless one that his daughter hated being part of. How could anyone truly think that after everything that happened that Elizabeth would gladly jump into the arms of the Commodore only to discover a few months later discover their temperaments didn't match and Elizabeth would – what? – reluctantly wander into the arms of the blacksmith who had broken a bloody pirate out of jail to rescue her?
Everyone would know and they would all talk.
It wasn't Philip who engineered the plan to break Jack Sparrow out of prison. Everyone knew the moon-eyed way Turner and Elizabeth looked at each other. Pastor Thomas had joked to the Governor before they left Port Royal, asking if he should read out the wedding banns while everyone was off on their pirate chase so they could just skip straight to the wedding when they all returned home safe.
Even bloody Rachel Brown – a woman strong, steady, and smart that in another life might have been Elizabeth's best friend – was willing to give up on trying to get in between the pair.
Everyone would know that Elizabeth was a horse at the starting gate just waiting to take off like a shot the second she could escape her engagement. And no one would be surprised to see her run straight into the arms of the blacksmith's apprentice waiting for her in the wings.
It was the same way everyone knew the morning that Rebecca wasn't in her bedroom that Nathaniel Swift would have also mysteriously checked out of his room at the Red Falcon Inn the previous night.
And that was why they had to go through with this stupid, pointless plan that his daughter hated being part of. Because of the bloody Beckett Incident. Because of his father. Because of Cutler. Because of Nathaniel. Because of Rebecca.
…Because of him.
Because he asked Rebecca to help take the heat off of Katherine from his father's anger over her many miscarriages. So, Rebecca – loving her brother and the woman who by law and heart she called sister – went to the father whose opinion she didn't respect and whose favor she didn't crave, and she struck up a deal. Leave Katherine alone and I will marry a man of your choosing.
It was a sacrifice she was willing to make… and then Nathaniel entered their lives.
When God sent Rebecca her true life's partner, how could anyone not condone her actions? Weatherby had put his sister in that position in so many ways, and when she needed him to save her-
An image of wood planks nailed across his sister's bedroom door flashed through his mind. He could hear the shadow of those echoing sobs.
How he wished he hadn't failed her. That he had saved her. But he didn't; he stood there and let it happen. It was one of the many reasons why Weatherby could not ever chastise his sister for the Beckett Incident.
Of course, that was the least of the reasons…
Weatherby shook his head.
The Beckett Incident was a sharp lesson that all of them had learned. Rebecca had paid. Nathaniel had paid. Weatherby had paid. Katherine had paid… Oh God how Katherine had paid. He would never forgive himself for what happened that day. What he let his father do because he was stupid enough to- No. It didn't matter anymore. The past was the past and there wasn't anything he could do to change it.
There was so much more that Weatherby could never bring himself to tell the children; things that could never be spoken. But the children understood the weight of the Beckett Incident and that was why Elizabeth sat across from him with that look on her face.
That look of surrender and pain and depression. God, it was a look Weatherby never wanted to grace the face of his precious daughter – his only child to survive. The girl he had sworn to both Katherine and Rebecca that he would never allow Elizabeth to be put through the pains that had been inflicted upon the precious two women in his life. Yet there it was, the very same face that had broken the visage of Rebecca. That so familiar face that sliced at his soul. How many times had their father-
Wait.
No.
That wasn't Rebecca's face.
No, Rebecca's face was different. There was always a darkness and defiance in it no matter how full of sorrow she was. A fire burned behind her eyes, and you could always see in their corner the rapid assembling of a plan to circumvent that hated state.
Weatherby almost wanted to smack himself for the mix up. Elizabeth had always so proudly identified herself as her aunt's niece over her mother's daughter that even Weatherby apparently overlooked when Katherine's expressions took over her daughter's. Yet here, for once, plain as day Katherine's face was painted upon Elizabeth's-
It wasn't Katherine's face either.
What? No. How could it not be Katherine's face? That look on Elizabeth's face was something straight out of his past. It was an expression he had seen often; he knew that for sure. Surely it must be Katherine's-
It's not Katherine's face.
He remembered. Katherine would never have let herself look like that. She was far too poised and controlled to allow such a visage of misery to display publicly on her face. That was one of Weatherby's main selling points about Katherine when he had approached his father about the match. Katherine always acted with utter decorum and political perfection. It was only in the safety of their private bedchamber when Katherine was able to sob hysterically in her husband's warm arms that she let the pain come out. Otherwise, Katherine Swann was London's paramount example of perfect temperament; the kind of woman that mothers would point to and chastise their unruly daughters for not being like. Only one time had that mask slipped for a moment and even then Katherine had acted with such grace that all of London had turned on Bartholomew Swann for causing the waver.
Apparently getting drunk at a party throwing your recently having miscarried daughter-in-law face first into a glass table with enough force it broke the table, right in front of a bunch of high-class guests was something even London society couldn't turn a blind eye to.
He felt his fist tighten.
NO. Stop. You can't think about that right now.
Weatherby unclenched his hand and turned his attention back to his daughter's odd face.
He frowned. It wasn't Katherine's poised mask, but it wasn't her private sorrowful face either. The look on Elizabeth's features was too cold and resigned. It looked less like she was pouring her heart's secrets out to him and more like she had cut her heart out from her chest and buried it in a locked chest far away.
Still… he knew that expression; he just knew it. But from where?
Philip? No, that wasn't right. Truth be told, with the exception of the hard years where they lost Tabitha, Katherine, Nathaniel, and Rebecca in succession, Weatherby wasn't sure if there ever had been a time where the boy had been truly sad.
Maybe it had been how his mother looked at his father? Joanna was quite the cold and disaffected mother and wife. He recalled how she hadn't even held Rebecca after giving birth. Just waved her off with the nurse when she saw it wasn't another son. Could it be Joanna?
No, there wasn't enough disgust or resentment in Elizabeth's face.
What about the other grandmother? The Skylark side?
The notion died as soon as it was birthed. His mother-in-law wouldn't have dared show such a face. Agnes was the queen of the Skylarks and she ruled the roost exactly as such. True, Charles Skylark was the patriarch and leader of the family, but it was Agnes who pulled every string. No. Agnes was cold but not disaffected. The look lacked a certain element of cunning to have originated from the Skylark grandmother.
But then where-
Skylark.
Something pulled at his mind.
Skylark was the right track. Not a member of the Skylark family, but rather, maybe… a room?
Yes! A room. He had seen that look in the… in the Skylark receiving room? But whose face was it on? When on earth-
The cold answer hit him like a bitter wind in the middle of an artic blizzard.
Inspection Day.
Weatherby swallowed hard. Inspection Day was a memory he had not thought about in a long, long time. It was a miserable, awful day that had occurred nearly thirty years ago in the spring of 1709.
It haunted him as one of the worst things he had ever subjected his wife to. If he was given the power to undo a single event of the past, while he may not ultimately choose Inspection Day, it would be a strong contender.
Not that the memory was a bad one; in fact, it was one of the happiest ones of his life. It had been the day when his father had agreed Katherine Skylark was a worthy bride for Weatherby and the day Weatherby begun to officially court his beloved Angel for marriage. How could the day he begun to walk toward the future hand in hand with his true love be anything but one of the greatest moments of his life?
But it was the inspection part of that day that roiled his stomach. Oh, he remembered that encounter in the drawing room of the Skylark home. It was something he would never forget.
There were three immediate thoughts Weatherby had that day as he and Rebecca entered the Skylark receiving room.
The first was how great a mistress of the house Agnes Skylark was; she kept that manor as an image of perfection. The receiving room was decorated simply but smartly in pale blues and whites, and trimmed with satins, lace, ivory, and pale (but expensive) woods. The furniture was exquisitely carved white oak pieces that probably cost more than the Swann coffers had earned in the last four years. The servants' uniforms were clean, pressed, and without a single hanging thread. The uniforms were as well taken care of as the costly attire worn by the assembled family, garments made of the finest fabrics shipped in from Italy and India. The room held not a speck of dust as large beams of sunshine shone through the large, almost entirely wall covering windows that faced perfectly to the east. It smelled of soap, dried flowers, and furniture polish. The Skylarks had the strange reputation of washing their home, clothing, hair, and selves quite regularly. Weatherby had even heard the absurd rumor of a frequency of twice monthly baths.
Along the wall opposite the extravagant display of windows was an elaborately laid table for luncheon. Presented on white china that had been hand painted with artistic arrangements of blue flowers was an extraordinary buffet of biscuits, cold meats, cheeses, wine, breads, jams, pastries, meat pies, at least seven kinds of tea leaves, and small fruits and vegetables carved into various flowers. Between the plates, small ivory flowers and white long-stemmed candles in polished silver candlesticks decorated the table.
And at the ends of the tables, next to the neatly stacked empty plates and cutlery were white linen napkins folded into the shapes of birds. There was of course the traditional swan shaped creation most noble homes like to sport, but paired neatly beside them was the signature Skylark dinner party flourish. The Skylarks were so high on their perch that several years back they had hired a man who was retired from overseeing the laying of King George I's table to design a napkin fold that looked like a skylark. So there in the perfect subtle suggestion of unity between the two families sat an intermingling of napkins neatly folded into swans and skylarks.
The table did look good, though. Weatherby couldn't blame Rebecca when she made a beeline for the feast and began helping herself with only the faintest nod of greeting to her hosts.
Usually, he would scold his sister for such impropriety, but he was distracted by his second thought. The thought that Andrew Skylark was every bit of a pompous ass as usual.
Smirking across the room at Weatherby was the source of many a headache he would endure in the coming years. Andrew Anthony Skylark was the second eldest of the Skylark children and he believed he was owed the world on a platter. He knew his life's trajectory was to marry some beautiful, rich heiress, have beautiful, rich children, and to spend the rest of his life being beautiful and rich.
Andrew also knew that it wouldn't be a hard goal as he was not shy about the fact that he was the most attractive of the sons. Carefully styled and maintained golden hair, cutting blue eyes, pale skin lightly kissed by the sun from many an hour of hunting, riding, and shooting, and a roguish self-assured smirk made ladies blush and flutter their fans seductively.
While all the Skylarks were uncommonly handsome, it was his sister, Katherine, that was Andrew's only rival to the title of "best looking of the family." She was the jewel in their crown, and he bitterly resented the attention she received over him. Katherine was the virgin only daughter in three generations of Skylark sons, and Andrew was nothing more than a secondborn boy in a sea of Skylark men.
Still, Andrew and Katherine weren't heated rivals and they never actively warred. Andrew merely grasped at whatever small barbs he could manage, while Katherine didn't lower herself to such immaturity. Andrew rarely even interacted with his sister, mostly tolerating her presence when he wasn't just doing the bare minimum of vaguely acknowledging her existence. Once Katherine married, her sweetheart status would be ended as "the virgin bride" would have lost both of her important titles and just be some other family's nobody. He was very much of the mind that since Katherine was a woman, there was no need to get attached as she would ultimately marry and leave them for another family. More than once he had been heard referring to his sister as like "a pair of boots you borrow from a mate on a country house hunt when the servants forgot to pack your own."
It was a phrasing that did not please his mother. Weatherby suspected that may have been the point to begin with.
But while he came second to Katherine in the looks department, Andrew especially knew that he was much more handsome than one Weatherby Swann. That was why the sight of the man brought a wicked smile to the roguish son's face.
Andrew didn't particularly care who would ultimately wed and bed his little sister, but he would also not make things easy for a suitor he considered so far beneath Katherine's beauty. While not an ugly man, Weatherby Swann even in youth was a fairly average looking fellow, which surprised some that Miss Katherine Skylark even entertained his suit. "She could do so much better" was a frequent whispered refrain, especially when all knew the reason for the match was fortune hunting.
At least, that was why Bartholomew Swann went searching for a match for his son. Weatherby would go to his grave swearing that Katherine's (admittedly sizable) dowry had no bearing on his choice of bride… not that it exactly hurt when pitching her to his father.
But as the Swann siblings mingled among the Skylarks, awaiting Bartholomew's arrival, Andrew easily stood out from the rest of the Skylarks. Or rather lounged.
Agnes demanded propriety from her family, so when they were expecting such important guests as the Swanns, everyone was in a proper assemblage.
Charles sat at a large dining table with his eldest son, John, discussing the news of the day and the welfare of their ships sailing in tea from all over Asia. The Skylarks had made their money in tea leaves, so there was practically no escaping the beverage on the Skylark grounds.
Edward – the third son, and Katherine's younger by less than a year – lectured the youngest brother, Michael on protocol of what to do when Bartholomew Swann arrived. That protocol was simply put "be quiet and melt into the wall." Thirteen-year-old Michael kept nervously glancing at the door and wringing his hands. Weatherby knew the intense stress the boy suffered whenever he was forced to be in social situations. Michael would only relax when he was allowed to escape back up to his room with his science books and collection of diagramed bugs pinned to cards.
Plate loaded, Rebecca took a seat next to the fourth brother, Simon – in Weatherby's estimate the most pleasant Skylark besides Katherine. He was seated on a couch chatting with his sister-in-law, Victoria but smiled and made room for Rebecca. The trio were of an age – sixteen years – and got along quite well, especially as the three fawned over Baby Jonas Skylark in Victoria's lap. Every now and then, Weatherby could catch John glancing back over at his wife and son, and a proud smile would slide across his face.
But Andrew… oh Andrew had to make a meal of things and he hadn't even touched the luncheon spread. He was sprawled out sideways across a cushy chair, feet dangling over the armrest. A look challenged Weatherby to reprimand him, but when Weatherby didn't, Andrew's eyes flicked back to the focus of his gloating. Across the room, on the largest couch that easily seated five, Agnes fussed over her daughter, smoothing the fabric of the pale blue silk dress, and fixing the golden locks styled perfectly atop her head in a more modest and simpler version of the latest fashion of a fontange.
And that was the third thing that caught Weatherby's attention. Everything else he noticed in the blink of an eye, and then it melted away to irrelevance. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that perfect angel sitting on the sofa, and how her smile lit up the room when she saw him.
"Weatherby!" Katherine exclaimed excitedly. She shot to her feet and was about to race forward, but she caught a look from her mother and remembered herself. Instead of going to him, she bowed her head deferentially and bobbed a small curtesy, staying precisely where she was, "I mean, welcome to our home, Mister Swann."
He smiled as he crossed the room, noticing Rebecca's smirk out of the corner of his eye but not particularly caring as he focused on the lovely young woman who lit up any room she walked into.
"An absolute pleasure, Miss Skylark," Weatherby tried not to act too eager as he kissed her proffered hand. He could barely fight back a blush when he felt how smooth and delicate her hand was and his mind involuntarily conjured images of further explorations of her skin on their wedding night. Desperate to not reveal his improper thoughts of Katherine to her family, Weatherby distracted himself by making the proper courtesies to the rest of the family. "Lady Skylark, thank you for this wonderful gathering."
"Mister Swann," Agnes gave her hand for him to kiss. As Weatherby obeyed, he couldn't help but think that there was something in her eyes that read she knew exactly what he had been picturing with Katherine.
As the daughter of some minor distant nobility, Agnes had retained the honorific of Lady upon her marriage even if she no longer had any such title from her husband. The Skylarks were not nobility, but they were obscenely rich. Charles' grandfather had been one of the first merchants to bring tea to England from the Orient. When the beverage exploded in popularity, the money came pouring in, and the name Skylark was elevated to that of high society. The marriage of Charles Skylark and Agnes Rosewell had been jokingly called "The Tea Baron Union" as the Rosewells were a distant branch of another tea family magnate: the Twinings.
That heavy purse was the entire reason Bartholomew Swann even bothered to consider Katherine Skylark as his only son's future bride. The Swanns may have been able to trace their nobility back over 600 years, but with every generation, that connection got further apart. True, their ancestral line of Shiring would occasionally marry in another Swann, but the Swanns were dwindling, and even worse, so were their coffers. Weatherby's marriage was the last chance for the Swanns to save face, or else society would know the truth about the bad financial decisions and dud investments the last two centuries of Swanns had made. They needed a large dowry and they needed it fast.
Weatherby Swann had to marry within the year.
The marriage market was a ritual that Weatherby had not expected to undertake at the tender age of three and twenty. But as the only son born to Bartholomew and Joanna who made it to adulthood, Weatherby had been pushed to accelerate his life plans and dive headfirst into his obligations of carrying on the Swann bloodline. At times, he bitterly wondered whether Father would have pushed his elder brother, Isaac into early marriage if he hadn't been thrown from a horse and killed at age thirteen. Isaac always was the big what if that clouded Weatherby's life.
But Isaac had died, and so did the other Swann siblings: Cecelia (God how he missed Cece), Alastair, Garrison, Tennyson, Priscilla, and Huxley. Nothing could change how one by one through sickness and accident, God picked off seven of the nine Swann children. So Weatherby and Rebecca as the survivors were expected to carry the family legacy on their shoulders. And when Rebecca fought and threw her portion of the family weight from her shoulders, what choice did Weatherby have but to pick it up and bear it himself?
Of course, Weatherby had reasoned the forced directive of marriage away with the justification that he would like to be of a similar age to his bride. He shuddered at the thought of being thirty and chasing after a girl as young as sixteen-year-old, Rebecca. Even twenty-four-year-old John Skylark and Victoria, his sixteen-year-old wife often made Weatherby wince. And now that Baby Jonas was in the picture… well, admittedly the pair had only been married a month before Victoria fell pregnant, but in Weatherby's opinion, Victoria's 17th birthday a month away could not come fast enough.
In that moment he made a vow to not let any daughter of his become engaged before her twentieth birthday.
Thinking on it, Weatherby supposed it had all worked out in the end as Katherine Skylark was finally sent out to the marriage market the very same year as Weatherby. Some may have considered her advanced at the age of nineteen and looked down on her love of literature, but the Skylarks knew exactly how to play their hand. Katherine was the first woman born in three large generations of strong and healthy Skylark men. The Skylarks had worked hard to prove their breeding stock to be unrivalled and to grow their fortunes immensely. Charles and Agnes Skylark had taken to calling Katherine unsarcastically the crowning jewel of the Skylark line, and she was treated like every bit that Crown Princess of the Skylarks she was.
Most importantly, a heavy dowry had been bestowed upon Katherine, and suddenly very few men cared about her old maid status or complained about her constant reading. So, with a face, social grace, and intelligence that Weatherby Swann considered no less than perfection, he was acutely aware that a great many men were ready to swarm in on that prize of Katherine Skylark should he stumble even slightly in his courtship.
It was why this particular congregation of the families unnerved the young Weatherby Swann so much. While the courtship between Weatherby and Katherine would continue with appropriate supervised outings and calls, all knew that those would be a mere formality after today. This meeting was the one that would truly decide if the Swann and Skylark families would unite. Today was the day that Charles and Agnes Skylark would size up Weatherby as their future son-in-law.
But even worse, today was the day Bartholomew Swann would size up Katherine.
Truthfully, Weatherby had never been so terrified in his life. One small slip and his father would eat her alive.
"Here, Miss Skylark," Weatherby in a panic of nerves thrust forward the bouquet he had carried into the room. "I brought these for you. Peonies. They're supposed to bring luck… I think. That's what the flower seller told me. To be perfectly honest, I might have been had by the flower seller, but I think they're pretty. Don't you?"
More than one snort filled the room, but as all the eyes in the room focused on him, it was only a beautiful pair of ice blue eyes that mattered to him.
Katherine giggled, "I think they're wonderful. I appreciate a man who does not default to the usual roses or lilies and actually considers the meaning behind their present. Thank you so very much, Mr. Swann for such a thoughtful gift."
In that oh so perfect way that he loved about her, Katherine acted as if there wasn't anything at all wrong with her sweating through his fancy garments beau. She just smiled gently, thanked him, took the peonies from him, and gave a performative sniff. He didn't know if it was because of Katherine actually liking the flowers or just the way she pretended they were the best flower in the world, but from that moment on, the smell of peonies would always remind Weatherby of Katherine.
"Look at the boy sweat, Agnes," Charles laughed, approaching his wife and daughter as Katherine handed off the flowers to a servant. He gave Weatherby a hard slap on the back that only made Weatherby's posture go more rigid, "I haven't seen someone this nervous to please since your brother, Peter went courting Georgine. Do we really come off that hard to win over?"
Rebecca smirked as she looked up from playing with Baby Jonas, "I don't think it's Weatherby trying to win over you that's the concern. It's the old dragon, Lord Bartholomew Swann he's scared of."
"I don't understand," Victoria frowned, reclaiming her son from Rebecca. "Haven't Katherine and Rebecca been friends for three years? You've spent plenty of time at the Swann Manor and in Lord Swann's company. Does he not approve of you, Katherine?"
"There is no quarrel or distaste from what I've observed," Katherine answered. Her voice as always was that soft, polite peacekeeper tone. The kind of tone that couldn't possibly fathom the idea of conflict or impropriety. "Then again, my attentions have been cultivating the friendship I have with Miss Swann. I have not truthfully spent much time socializing with Lord Swann individually, though I am eager for the opportunity."
"Translation," Rebecca sardonically cut in, "because she's just been my friend, he's never had to pay attention to her or even acknowledge her existence. She's just been the person to keep me out of trouble while Weatherby's been at university. But now that Weatherby's circling her as prey, Father has to inspect the kill."
"I'm not circling her!" Weatherby exclaimed in a whiny tone he instantly regretted using in front of his potential in-laws. At the sight of Rebecca's smug face, Weatherby looked to the ceiling to collect himself. He took a deep breath and tried again, "The reason for this is simply to make proper introductions and explore if a match between myself and Miss Skylark would be beneficial for all involved."
Rebecca shot him a look, "All involved and then some. Last time I checked, only three people are involved in a marriage: the husband, the wife, and the Lord. No one else's opinion matters."
Feeling the judging eyes of her parents on her for having a friend like Rebecca, Katherine responded, "I'm sure that's not true. After all, as your friend I would be heartbroken to see you married to someone I don't approve of with you."
"Fine. I promise you get veto power over my future husband, but I'm not extending the same courtesy to Father."
"Deal."
"Speaking of," Agnes cut in, shooting a look at her daughter for feeding into Rebecca's nonsense. Her eyes then flicked over and met Weatherby's. She held them for an agonizingly long two seconds, "When will your father be arriving?"
"Shortly," Weatherby assured. "He's coming from some business meetings, so he wasn't able to arrive from the Manor with Rebecca and I."
"Thankfully," Rebecca called out.
Both Weatherby and Agnes shot her a look. Rebecca just shrugged.
Agnes took a deep breath, "Mister Swann, I hope that you understand the seriousness of this situation. Katherine is my one and only daughter, and the only Skylark woman in three generations. It is not just me carefully watching these proceedings. I have a swarm of Skylarks pecking down my back to ensure this goes right. We are a very profitable and fruitful family; Katherine isn't going to be married to just any man who shows a passing fancy."
Weatherby tried to give a friendly smile but doubted its effectiveness due to nerves, "Of course, Lady Skylark. Miss Katherine is a beautiful, intelligent, kind young lady that any man would be blessed to call wife. I assure you I will do everything in my power to prove I would be a husband worthy of her. Is there any area in particular where you are concerned with my character?"
"Oh, your character is exemplary. I have heard nothing but praise concerning yourself and I am sure you will prove to be a fine match for my daughter. But…"
"But?"
"It is your father who concerns me."
Charles groaned, "Good God, Agnes. Not this again."
She spun around to her husband and hissed in a low voice, "Don't scold me, Charles. You've heard the way they talk about him."
"And that is none of our concern."
"It is if our daughter marries into that!"
Weatherby swallowed hard as the Skylark couple devolved into bickering. He glanced over at Katherine, and she gave her a soft understanding look before reaching out to rub his arm in reassurance. He couldn't disagree with Agnes. Katherine would have to be made of strong stuff to survive in his family. The best course of action was to make sure Katherine got on his good side today and then stayed out of Swann family squabbles as much as possible. After all, it was only eighty years until death. A perfectly sustainable plan if you asked him.
God, he was going to die alone.
The feeling of Katherine's hand stroking up and down his arm was quite relaxing. Weatherby tried to just focus on that: her gentle ministrations up and down, up and down.
"It's okay," Katherine whispered. "It will all be fine. There's nothing to worry about. I'm right here with you."
And that was the calm he needed. He felt the stress slowly melting away as she stroked his arm steadily up and down. Katherine was here to support him, and she would stay by his side no matter what came. That was what he wanted; what he needed. Someone to just stand there at his side and remind him that he wasn't alone, she was there, and together they would find their way through the storm.
Up and down. Up and down.
"I'm right here with you."
Oh Katherine… they would figure this out. They had to.
They would.
When the bickering ceased, the Skylark interview of Weatherby began. He was grilled extensively on his family's finances, lineage, education, religiosity, and lifestyle. But it was nothing Weatherby couldn't handle; his father had rigorously prepared him for any question the Skylarks threw his way.
He easily extolled the high-end education he had received and his academic successes within. He had a clear well thought out legal and political plan for the future with a keen interest in ethical colonial pursuits that were beneficial to both the British Empire and the local natives. He could rattle off his family's financial investments and return percentages without batting an eye. He could name the entire six hundred year line of descendancy to himself down from house founders Earl Richard of Shiring and his wife, Lady Elizabeth the Swan.
Even better was having Rebecca at his side as his champion. In the far-off future, Weatherby would describe his relationship with his sister not unlike the relationship between Philip and Elizabeth. They would taunt, torment, and fight like cats and dogs but would die for the other without a second thought. Despite all the teasing between siblings, when it came to getting her brother and her best friend married, Rebecca was proud to step up and brag about all of his virtues. Most of which were even true.
In fact, it seemed that the only place Weatherby fell short in the eyes of his in-laws was a lack of acumen or interest in hunting or shooting.
"I suppose a man cannot be skilled in every activity," Charles conceded. "Well, Agnes, what do you think? Should we approve the boy for our Kat?"
In an instant all breath left the room. While legally it was Charles who would make the decision, it was Agnes who held the cards. The destiny of two entire lives came to that moment when Agnes Skylark stared quiet and calculatingly at Weatherby and Katherine and finally uttered:
"I approve of the match."
A great shout went up in the room. Rebecca leapt off the sofa and grabbed Katherine in a hug, jumping and spinning Katherine around in a show Weatherby wished was only proper for him to replicate.
Instead, he decided to play the hero and extricate his soon-to-be fiancée (so long as his father approved) from the grasp of Rebecca. Weatherby felt bad for Katherine's brothers. The second he pried the girls apart, Rebecca practically jumped on Edward and Michael, shaking the poor young men by the shoulders in a death grip, shouting "I told you so."
Edward looked rightfully annoyed. Poor Michael just looked confused.
Weatherby glanced over to Katherine expecting to see the same joyous celebration as he and Rebecca, but was surprised to find her staring intently at the grandfather clock.
It was an elegant white and blue piece intricately carved on the sides with skylarks, something Weatherby expected nothing less to be in the home of Agnes Skylark. But it wasn't the beauty Katherine was admiring; her eyes were firmly fixed on the hands of the clockface.
Her demeanor was odd. Her lips formed phantom words and her right hand twitched, the thumb rapidly tapping the tips of its sister fingers. When he strained to listen, Weatherby could barely make out the sound of numbers and arithmetic.
Weatherby opened his mouth to inquire toward her odd behavior, but suddenly Katherine's head swiveled towards the maid attending to the banquet laid out.
"Ivy?" Katherine called out. "Could you please bring us a fresh pot of tea?"
The celebration in the room stopped. Glances zigzagged the room from Skylark to Swann to Skylark and so on as anyone tried to figure out if someone knew what Katherine was doing.
"A fresh pot?" John as eldest son finally decided it was his duty to bridge the silence.
Katherine simply nodded, "Yes, a fresh pot. Of that new high-grade Darjeeling from the Orient."
"Darjeeling?" her father raised a brow. "I don't see why we need to suddenly break the bank. Do you know how much of a markup I get on those leaves?"
"Please, Father. It is a special occasion. Should we not celebrate by giving Lord Bartholomew the finest we have to offer? We should not want him to think we have misstated our own financial situation."
The affect of the Bartholomew card was immediately.
"Fine," Charles huffed. He would not be made to look miserly (or worse, broke) in front of Lord Swann. "But the cost of that tea is coming out of your dowry if that pot goes to waste. That stuff is expensive and tea leaves don't just grow out of the ground."
"Uh…" Simon looked very confused as weakly reminded his father, "Yes, they do?"
Agnes just shook her head, "Ivy, do as my daughter says and go fetch the new pot of tea."
"Yes, Lady Skylark," The maid bobbed a curtesy and turned to door.
"No, wait!" the words leapt from Katherine's throat in a panicked yelp like a dog woken from a nap by its tail being trod on.
All the eyes in the room snapped on her. Some in judgement, others in pity, and a rare few in kindness. But it was the cringe of Charles and the burning glare of Agnes that made Katherine realize her faux pas.
Collecting herself, Katherine closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Like the perfect lady she composed herself into that flawless authority of the household staff.
"Ivy, wait," Katherine commanded. Her voice was strong, clear, but kindly. There was no trace of acknowledgement of her error, just the retaking of the reins of instruction. "Do not leave yet. I want you to leave the room in exactly seven minutes."
"Seven minutes?" Edward raised an eyebrow. Her Irish twin was less overtly antagonistic than Andrew, but still could never just let sleeping Katherines lie. The pair had a strange undercurrent to their relationship like they had an implicit rivalry to prove they were the foremost Skylark child of their birth year yet liked each other well enough to never outright state it.
"Yes, seven," Katherine repeated confidently. "Seven minutes will produce the finest pot of tea for Lord Bartholomew."
Katherine's eyes moved to her mother's. The steely blue grey gaze of mother held the clear sky blue of daughter. A challenge passed unspoken between women.
"Explain," Agnes simply commanded.
She did as she was told, "Lord Bartholomew only drinks tea hot enough to scald. I know his hours of work, the pace he moves in departing a place and arriving at another, how long it takes to ready his carriage – his lead horse, Jericho recently obtained a slight injury and is moving about three minutes slower than usual – how long to takes to travel from his office to our home, and how long it takes to go from our front door to this room. Contrast that with how long it takes Ivy to get down to the kitchen, boil the water, brew the tea properly, and bring it back up to us. So if she leaves the room in seven minutes – well, six minutes by now – she will be placing the teapot on the table the moment Lord Bartholomew Swann walks into this room."
Andrew didn't bother to suppress his loud piglike snort, "That is absurd. There is no way you could possibly time that properly. See what I said about her absurd habit of reading, John? It gets women uppity and addled."
"I would have to agree," John shrugged. "That is a ridiculous estimation to be so confident in."
Katherine didn't lower herself to their derision, just reaffirmed, "Lord Bartholomew will be here in the moment Ivy places the teapot on the table. I am certain of it."
"Alright then," Andrew swung his legs around from his lacrid lounging to sit up straight. "How about a wager? If you are correct in your timing, I will personally contribute an extra 20 pounds towards your wedding. If you are wrong, you never read another book under this roof."
A sharp gasp filled the room. Reading was Katherine's passion; the pages of a book was as necessary to her survival as water to drink or air to breathe. The stakes were not just high, but they were cruel.
"Well?" Andrew challenged. "Are you so sure of your timing?"
"Kat, don't," even Rebecca's voice was soft and afraid.
But Katherine was unruffled. It was the tiniest smile that twinged a single corner of her lips; the smallest break of ladylike perfection. "Andrew… you have a wager."
What ensued next were the longest minutes of Weatherby Swann's life. Every eye of the room swivelled from clock to doorframe as they all watched and waited. The tension even brought back the nervous habit of John's wife to bite her fingernails, something her mother-in-law despised and would give her an earful about later.
A collective breath was held, and then a gasp when Ivy walked back in with a steaming pot of delicious smelling Darjeeling tea.
"Thank you, Ivy," Agnes murmured as she watched the maid cross the room towards the low table where the tea fixings were set.
Andrew snorted, "See? What did I say? Too many books have ruined our fair sister's-"
The teapot softly set on the table.
"Announcing his Lordship, the Lord Bartholomew Swann!" the footman at the door announced.
Andrew openly gaped as Bartholomew Swann strode into the room, looking like he had little desire or patience for the appointment to begin with.
Rebecca wanted to shout out in Andrew's face as her body pulsated with the energy of victory. But she would not dare make a fool of the name Swann in front of her father. Not now, not with such an important event such as this. Instead, she had to just sit there smug and watch as Andrew slunk out of the room, muttering something about needing to move some investments at the bank. Katherine's dowry would be a little more desirable now.
But Katherine didn't celebrate her victory. She just sat there placid and proper as always with that angelic smile on her face.
"My Lord Swann, how wonderful to see you again," Katherine rose to offer her hand to Bartholomew. Her voice was warm and delicate, the perfect image of a host. "Welcome to our humble home."
Bartholomew seemed to have noticed the act she was putting on. He bent and gave her hand a kiss, and then held it for a moment as his eyes studied her.
Weatherby hated the memory of his father studying Katherine. It may have only been a few seconds, but it felt an eternity as Weatherby knew his father was going through a specific checklist in his mind.
She was fair and unfreckled, obviously not dallying longer than proper in the sunlight.
She was very short, but her family seemed average enough in height that it didn't worry Bartholomew about miniature grandchildren. Besides, she would never dominate a scene and overtake her husband or father-in-law or even Rebecca standing that small. She would be a perfect novelty to show off when needed and then melt into the background when unneed.
Her hair was a bright golden blonde, undiminished by ash or the reddish tones of strawberry blonde or drabness of dirty blonde. Her eyes were bright crystal blue, as clear cut as a diamond.
Her nails and teeth were clean and orderly, her fingertips well-manicured and hands smooth, unhampered by rough housework. Her smile was radiant and infectious, the kind that was hard to frown next to.
Her breasts were small, but pert and well-shaped for what was there. Heaven forbid she ever had the need, but she would be able to nurse his grandchildren well if required. Her hips were large enough for her petite stature and made her cut a good figure in gowns. Provided her babies were small, Katherine should have no problem with delivering children, though larger ones may require the intervention of forceps.
Weatherby watched and shifted unfortunately as he saw the information flit across his father's eyes. He was half worried that Bartholomew was about to ask Katherine to spin around for him when his father withdrew his hand and shoved his hat and coat at the footman.
"Let's not dither over small talk," Bartholomew settled into the seat Andrew had vacated, instantly taking the role of Lord and Commander of the room. "We all know what we're here for, so let us get down to it."
"Of course," Katherine smiled, settling down onto the couch across from Bartholomew. She discretely pulled Rebecca down onto the couch next to her while Weatherby settled in a chair next to them, set in front of a large mirror. "May I offer you some tea? It's our finest Darjeeling."
Bartholomew stared at her for a minute and then barked out, "Two milk, one sugar, teaspoon of honey.
Without a word, Katherine instantly fixed the directed beverage. Her moves were graceful and decisive as she made a show of preparation. She never once looked up to acknowledge Bartholomew's eyes studying her as she performed the test. For test it was.
Katherine had been Rebecca's friend and frequent guest for three years. She had fixed him many a cup of tea, which meant she knew he only ever drank it black and scolding. But she understood his strange order, he wanted to make sure she could play hostess and assemble a cup of tea the proper way for her guests. He wanted to know if she put the milk in first or last (it was a detail Weatherby could never get straight and had lost which way she did it in his memory, only that it was the "right way.") He wanted to see whether she offered honey and how she cleanly transferred it from pot to cup (bless Katherine, she did it with a particularly fancy flourishing spin and didn't drip a drop.) He wanted to see how full she filled the cup. He wanted to see if her hand would shake when she handed over his cup.
He wanted to know if the Tea Baron's daughter could make a cup of tea.
No one said anything as Katherine handed the cup to him. Bartholomew just accepted it, took a sip, and set the cup down.
"Black," he simply said.
Katherine understood and promptly poured him another cup.
"Hot and strong," Bartholomew drank the Darjeeling like it was as cheap as ale. "As tea should be."
"Thank you, My Lord," Katherine bowed her head. "I aim to please."
"I hope so. I'm not keen to waste my time on an improper match for my son."
Charles proudly said, "Oh, I'm sure you'll find our Katherine the most perfect and proper of matches for-"
Bartholomew silenced him with a hand, "Thank you, Mister Skylark. But I will address you when I wish to hear you."
His cold, cutting eyes made Charles shrink under their gaze.
"Now, let us begin this interview. And I expect silence from all except whom I am speaking to. Is that understood?"
The room filled with an awkward silence, unsure eyes once more darting back and forth. There was no doubt of the shame and embarrassment in the countenances of the Swann children.
"Now," Bartholomew looked to Katherine, "what is your full Christian name?"
"Katherine Philippa Skylark."
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen years of age."
"Why is this only your first season? You clearly have the beauty and grace to have been out much earlier."
Katherine appropriately blushed at the compliment, "Thank you, Lord Swann. There were several factors that went into the decision. Foremost, my parents wished to see my brother, John married first so that there were no in-laws swarming and scheming to inherit the family fortune."
Edward coughed. Weatherby wasn't sure if it was on purpose, but it did bring to everyone's mind the point that the Swanns were after the Skylark fortunate.
"Secondly, my parents had some reservations about whether one of my foremost qualities would stunt my prospects."
"What quality is that?"
"I must confess I am an avid reader. I tend to finish at least one text a week, and I don't much care what the subject is. I've read Grecian Theatrics, scientific texts, poetry, church sermons, and even log books of the incoming inventory of importers docking in Brighton. I hope that does not disturb you?"
"Of course not."
It was a bluff. Katherine knew very well that Lord Bartholomew wouldn't mind her reading. There were three things he had called her over the years as he spoke to Rebecca. "The small girl," "the educated girl," and "that girl who always reads." He had even loaned her some of his texts from time to time.
"I think it a virtue to educate our daughters. It shows that we are above the rabble of the lower classes and have the resources to indulge our women." Bartholomew shot a look over to Rebecca, "It's when they start using their power for obstruction that it becomes a problem."
Rebecca grinned mockingly at him, "I love you too, Father."
"Be quiet, Rebecca."
On and on the interview went. Much the same were the topics as Weatherby's interview: finances, education, upbringing, family history, future aspirations. Any member of society would expect those questions and gladly accept answering them.
But Bartholomew was not like most society; there were lines that should not be crossed, and he crossed them.
It was after the section on how many children Katherine would endeavour for and how she would bring them up that Bartholomew asked that which should not have been.
"And I promise you, once I am married, I shall excitedly jump to the task of becoming a mother as soon as possible," Katherine couldn't help but turn that angelic smile on Weatherby.
Edward's coughing fit came back, and Weatherby suddenly felt rather hot under the collar. Male Skylarks surrounded him as Katherine told them all – however innocently she sounded – how excited she would be to jump into bed with her future husband.
But the innuendo didn't seem to penetrate Bartholomew. He just looked at her and then asked her the last question anyone expected.
"Are you a virgin?"
Katherine froze, "I'm sorry, what?"
"Are you a virgin?" he calmly repeated with the same tone as when he has asked her age.
You could hear a pin drop in that stunned silence as everyone processed that he had said what he had said. Then, the explosion.
"Father!"
"Father!"
"Lord Swann!"
"My God!"
A dozen voices spoke on top of each other, berating and chastising until one voice rose above them all.
"That's enough!" Agnes snapped. "Lord Swann, I have no idea where you would possibly get the gall to call in my daughter's virtue, but if that's how you are to conduct yourself, you can leave my home now."
Weatherby's heart lurched. No, no, no! This was going to fall apart! He couldn't let it, but how could he stand up to his father? If Weatherby made Bartholomew not ask, his father could shut everything down and he couldn't marry Katherine. But if he let the Skylarks let his father ask, they could shut things down and he couldn't marry Katherine.
But worst of all, he could force Katherine to be humiliated, answer, and then she would reject him, and he couldn't marry Katherine.
He didn't want her to have to answer. It was wrong and slanderous and humiliating, and he didn't want her to ever feel the way that his father made him feel. She deserved so much more than that… so much more than him.
Weatherby knew that the only life forward he could offer her was that life of shame, pain, and humiliation. How could he ever ask her to endure that for him?
And then their eyes met: sad and understanding. Katherine knew exactly what he had to offer her and the difficult road ahead. Maybe it was that moment he knew how much he loved her and that was why he wanted to save her from it. But did he love her enough to let her go?
Then, so very subtly, Katherine nodded.
"It's okay, Mother," she said. "I will answer Lord Bartholomew's questions. Whatever you ask of me, I will answer. Yes, My Lord. I am still a virgin and will be until my wedding night."
And in the moment, Weatherby realized how much she loved him. What she would put herself through to some reason be the wife of him of all people.
No moment ever made him feel happier, nor did any moment ever make him feel more self-hatred than what he made her sit through.
He listened to his father question the woman that would one day be his wife about her history and habits of menstruation and feminine health. When did she get her first period? How frequent were they? How heavy were they? Did she had any symptoms that would impede social events? Did she keep herself neat and orderly during that time?
On and on the questions went, humiliating Katherine in front of her parents and brothers.
Weatherby leaned back in his chair, hating himself for what he was putting Katherine through. He couldn't face anyone, so he turned his head away and looked back into the mirror behind him.
On his face was a cold, depressed, detached sadness of someone who hated what they were doing and yet had no choice but to do it.
It was that face that Elizabeth had on her now.
Weatherby sat in stunned silence. It was his own face upon his daughter's. How could he have not seen?
He reminded that cold, horrible day with a chill down his spine. The way his father had made him feel that day was something he had vowed neverto let Philip and Elizabeth feel.
And yet, there he was, inflicting it upon Elizabeth as clear as day.
She didn't want this. Not for a moment. What was James making her do? Playact the part of the blushing bride to a man she didn't love. Why? What was the purpose? To hurt and punish Elizabeth and Turner? Was James hoping she would fall in love in the two months they played pretend.
God, two months. Two months of forcing Elizabeth to play this part she hated. To make her feel empty, numb, unseen. Like she was nothing more than a doll in society's plan.
What was even the reason he was making her do this? To save face? What face? Elizabeth had been alone with Turner. She was compromised by that fact alone. But then that was the worst of the sins that had been committed. For God's sakes! Philip was in love with a mermaid! What shred of dignity was there left?
He hated this. It was everything he had never wanted for her. To force her into a role the way they tried to Rebecca. To push her aside and punish her the way they did Katherine.
No! He hated this! He didn't want it! After all this time, he had to do the thing he swore not to do. To force Elizabeth into that humiliation to wither and die the way everyone in the Swann house always did!
He couldn't do it! He couldn't do it!
And then he realized it.
He couldn't do it.
He wouldn't do it.
Weatherby Swann could make a choice than Bartholomew Swann never did. He could say no.
But the Beckett Incident. Hadn't-
Oh, hang the Beckett Incident! What good had that mantra ever done them? Was the alternate history of Rebecca being forced to marry Beckett really that golden a standard? Absolutely not! No matter the consequences they had endured, seeing that door open and his sister free was worth it tenfold.
So why was his daughter's future any less important than his sister's past?
To Hell with the Beckett Incident! To Hell with pretend engagement charades! To Hell with propriety and society and anyone who told his children that they couldn't love Will Turner or Syrena Barbossa!
Elizabeth chose Will. Nothing else mattered. Not Norrington. Not himself. Not Philip or Katherine or Nathaniel or Rebecca or Bloody Cutler Beckett.
He couldn't change the past. But he could change the future.
And so Weatherby Swann said the one thing his father never would.
"I'm sorry, Commodore. It seems that you have tried to think the best possible route through, but we need to cut down to the heart of this. I refuse to put my daughter through heartache in the name of propriety."
Elizabeth's head snapped up.
"I will make it simple for you all," Weatherby continued. "Commodore James Norrington, I retract my consent. Elizabeth, you are free to marry whomever you wish."
His daughter flew across the room and crushed him in a hug. Weatherby Swann didn't watch James awkwardly slip away; he just hugged his daughter and cried happy tears with her.
He would make a different choice.
And even though they were miles from any sensible land, he could have sworn he saw a skylark flit past the window.
A/N: OH MY GOD! THIS CHAPTER IS DONE! I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD POP CHAMPAGNE!
So, yeah. If you couldn't tell, one benefit to me having this writer's block, it's that I was able to objectively view the whole Elizabeth pretends to still be engaged to Norrington thing and realized that overall, it was going to be kind of pointless. I'm still going ahead with the story of why I was going to have that storyline, but I'm changing up the tone and stakes of it a little more, shifting around some revelations and plot points to adjust.
I will reveal though when we get to it when Syrena was going to originally throw a flag on the field and reveal the pretend engagement because I really love that moment and am sad to lose it.
Also to avoid the long time between updates, I'm going to try to prewrite a ton of chapters as I feel like there's going to be a very long stretch of story that is easy for me to tell. Objectively I have a crystal clear idea of what the next 25-37 chapters (depending on how I end up splitting them up) are going to be beat by beat. I then have I think about 5-7 chapters I've got the bones of that I'm still trying to figure out how they fit together properly. After that I think I have the next set of chapters figured out, and then that leads into DMC, which I basically know what I'm doing from then until two storylines after the conclusion of AWE. I've got a little time I have to fill beyond then until I get to OST, and then I've got some work to figure out basically the conclusion of the story.
So basically, beyond a bump or two here and there, I should be getting through this fic rather fast from now until the end of OST.