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Gavotte
by Termagant
Character: Elizabeth (N/E, W/E)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Archive: Exitseraphim.org/Termagant [Archived on Horizon with permission]
Originally Posted: 5/16/07
Summary: It is her first kiss. It is not what she has imagined.
1.
Elizabeth learns how to make herself come the summer she is fifteen, and spends most of it practicing. She walks up to Fort Charles on hot days, sunbonnet bouncing forgotten on her back, and sits on a green hill overlooking the fort. Watches the garrison marching and drilling, the officers strolling tall and ramrod-straight with hands folded behind their backs.
She grows tongue-tied when Captain Norrington comes to dinner with the Admiral, and he frowns at her unaccustomed silence. She tries not to watch his face in profile, the way his sword hangs from his hip, the way his white stockings cling to his molded calves. Excuses herself before dessert, throws her bedroom window open and lies on top of her covers with her breath coming in great salty heaves. Skitters her palms up and down her sides, over the corseted swell of her bosom, not knowing what she wants or what has driven her to this state, only that she loves it and is terrified by it and that it has something to do with wanting to run away to sea.
She doesn't return to bid her guests farewell, although she knows her behaviour is inexcusably rude. Her father chastises her at breakfast the next morning, but his heart is not in it. It never is.
—
Some days she does not walk up to the fort, but instead contrives to find herself near the forge, tries to glimpse Will Turner at work through the soot-blackened windows. Last year she would have thought nothing of marching in the front door and chattering half an hour away as Will murmured "Yes, Miss Swann" and "I couldn't say, Miss Swann" at the appropriate pauses in her monologue, but lately she is shy of him and can't say why. It isn't the same shyness she feels with the Captain: her father thinks him awfully young, but he is a man—that is important, somehow—while Will is still a boy. Toward Will she feels a fluttery, queasy tenderness, veined through with something deep and warm which she suspects is love. Wants to kiss him sometimes, thinks about it, practiced once on her pillow until she was overcome by the giggles.
She cannot say what it is she wants from Norrington, but she does not think it is kissing.
2.
The Dauntless sets sail one morning in August and doesn't return for six months. Captain Norrington comes to tea on a Tuesday, and when Elizabeth greets him in the foyer she meets his gaze steadily. She is sixteen now and wears her hair up.
"Captain Norrington, how delightful to see you again," she drawls, offering one dainty gloved hand.
The uncertain look is only on his face for an instant as he takes in her unstained gown, her intact glove, but she does not miss it. "Miss Swann," he replies smoothly, bowing. "You are much grown since last I was in Port Royal."
She purses her lips, regarding him, then flashes him her least ladylike grin. "Oh, I haven't changed so much. Tell me how many you caught, then, their crimes and their punishments. Any good hangings?"
He steadfastly refuses to tell her stories of the sea, and the look in his eyes is barely a flicker, but she doesn't miss it, either.
She stays through dessert this time, curtseys politely when the men retire to their cigars and brandy. She resists the temptation to wink at Norrington behind her father's back.
—
Elizabeth makes her début the following month. Throws a tantrum over Will's distinct lack of an invitation, but for once fails to get her way with her father. Sulks briefly, then stops by the forge the day after her final fitting, a basket over one arm and her finished gown over the other. Brown is gone to his meal and will remain at the Hog's Head until late in the afternoon.
Will protests when he realizes what she means to do, but she overrules his objections with a look and begins to unbutton her skirt. He flushes deep red, stumbles over his feet in his haste to turn away.
"If you can't come to the ball, we shall simply have to have our own," she says sensibly, glancing back over her bare shoulder. His back is still turned, and she allows herself a quick secret smile at the way his hands are clenched at his sides, the blush visible beneath the tanned skin of his neck. She wriggles most of the way into the gown, but cannot lace the bodice herself, and an impish note creeps into her voice when she tells him so.
"Miss Swann, I cannot presume—I cannot—I cannot," he stammers. She sighs, knows he is right. Wants to watch his hands tremble as he tries, but she can only torment him so much. She does love him, really.
"Oh, very well. But it won't have the proper effect, doing it myself. You'll have to use your imagination." An expectant cough.
The look on his face when he turns and sees her tastes almost as sweet as his imagined hands on her laces. She is surprised to find herself blushing, too; recovers quickly with a flutter of her lashes and tartly demands whether he is not going to ask her to dance.
His hands are steadier than she has expected, and she wonders a little jealously whether he has been practicing. Her own attempts to teach him the minuet were the brief folly of two years previous, but he waltzes surprisingly well. She still instinctively leads, though, and her laughter when they trip over each other's feet is genuine, not the contrived giggle she will employ with the eligible young men at the morrow's ball.
When they have spent fifteen minutes tripping one another around the room she tumbles Will with her into a pile of straw. He lands half on top of her and she swiftly throws a handful of the stuff in his hair before he can right himself. He brushes most of it away without taking his eyes from her, and although he is smiling she suddenly feels nervous. He is awfully close, and she could nearly—
—but he remembers himself, stands abruptly and extends a hand to help her up. "Miss Swann, your gown," he asks anxiously.
"Oh, it'll be all right," she laughs, brushing straw from the overskirt. A twinge of rebellion makes her want to shred the confection of silk and lace, but it passes momentarily. She is a grown-up girl now, and she has learned to compromise with her fate. "I'd better put it away before something does happen to it, though."
Once she has changed back, she unpacks her basket. She spreads a cloth on the strewn floor and lays out a picnic lunch. Looks up when her work is done and has to laugh at the hungry expression on Will's face.
"Well, go on, then," she smiles. Will has unbent enough by now for them to laugh their way through lunch together, and when Elizabeth is walking home later she catches herself grinning more than once. The distance Will has placed between them is still new enough to smart, and finding that she has not entirely lost her old playmate makes her feel—steadier.
Of course, that does not entirely account for the grin.
—
Norrington does not let her lead.
His hand nearly spans her waist and something about this, the largeness of his hand and its firmness at her back, puts her on edge. Her body is tensed, poised, in a way nothing like her easy dance with Will the day before. She is quite familiar with this particular feeling of tension: she has felt it around Norrington before. She thought it nearly unbearable. She thought she had learned to control it. But now his strong hands are on her and his clean-shaven neck with its sharp Adam's apple is inches from her lips. His smell is all around her, starch and salt and sweat. Her blood pounds at her temples. Her feet walk her mechanically through the steps, and she wills herself not to stumble. They have another dance after this, and then she will be free of him, of this consuming anxiety. Surely she can bear it until then.
At last their two dances are through and she is released. She curtseys with her lashes lowered. Her dance card is nearly full; she is collected now by the nineteen-year-old heir to a Bermudan sugar plantation. He is handsome, after the Nordic fashion, and his blond hair is streaked dark with sweat in the evening heat. His hands are dainty, long-fingered and slim. She does not feel dizzy dancing with him.
She slips out as soon as she can, but not before committing two more spaces further down her card. Even near midnight, even in the relative cool of the terrace, she swelters in her heavy gown. Two fingertips, drawn across her collarbones, come away dripping. She grimaces, takes deep breaths of the too-thick air, fans herself desperately. All she needs is to catch her breath. It is easier here in the darkness, away from the clamor and the watchful eyes of every mother in Port Royal. That is all, a few minutes to breathe, and then she will return. It is her ball, her duty, and she does not mean to shirk it. Only a few minutes, and a prayer that she will not have to dance with him again.
She leans against a pillar, the marble painfully cool against the heated skin of her shoulders. Tries to think of anything but Norrington's hand on her back, his iron posture, the breadth of his shoulders. She had nearly been of a height with her last partner, a pompous young man with an absurd little moustache of which he clearly thought a great deal—and the way he had stepped on her feet, then turned scarlet as he tried to apologize while doing it again—it had taken every ounce of her self-control not to laugh, and that self-control was wearing dangerously thin already. Now that she thinks of it again she cannot hold it in; the laugh begins to escape her close-pressed lips and grows until it fills her belly, until her stays dig into her and she collapses against the pillar, falling half-sideways and sliding down against it in spasms of hilarity. At last she thinks she has it under control, and then she thinks of how she will tell Will and begins all over again.
Suddenly she finds herself regarded by—is he smirking? She would not have thought him capable—a very tall, very amused Captain Norrington. He does have a way of appearing from nowhere, catlike in the darkness, and she curses him silently for it. She is half-collapsed on the ground, and he simply looks at her for a moment before extending his hand. When she is on her feet, he opens his mouth, then closes it again as though he has changed his mind about what he means to say. At last he smiles a little, and tries again.
"I hope you are not leaving us so soon, Miss Swann. I had hoped to impose upon you for the two next." He is, at least, not looking at her; his chin is lifted and his face is lit by the full moon. One hand clasps the other wrist behind his back, as though to restrain himself from something. She tenses, clenches her fists, takes deep breaths.
"I was—just about to take a turn in the gardens. I find the night air most refreshing," she improvises, willing him to go away, go back inside, go anywhere else. Instead he turns his face away from the moon, half toward her.
"Allow me to escort you," he replies smoothly, offering his arm. She takes it; she cannot refuse.
They walk. He attempts conversation, but she responds vaguely or briefly, or both, so then they walk in silence. Chatter and the high strings follow them out onto the terrace and down into the garden—again, and unquestioningly, he leads.
The hedge at the bottom of the garden is all that separates them from the beach; she dares not ask him to take her out there, but at least here she can hear the waves and smell the salt. The sound, the familiar lullaby, calms her. She can feel it, too, the slow release of tension, in his arm as they stroll. For the first time she thinks perhaps she understands him a little.
They walk for maybe ten minutes without exchanging a word, and when they turn back toward the ballroom Elizabeth is no longer giddy. For the first time she thinks perhaps she likes him a little.
She does not dance with Norrington again that evening. She does not see him again until he comes to take his leave. He kisses her hand; he has never done that before. She is a lady now. She is gracious, and distant. Her pulse does not quicken.
After the party she escapes as quickly as possible, snaps at Estrella while she is getting her out of the insufferable gown. Her skin is angry red where her stays bit into her flesh, and sticky everywhere from the dense tropical air. When Estrella leaves she slips out of her nightgown, pushes the coverlet off the bed and lies naked between the sheets. She tries to think of Will.
When she comes she gasps his name into the dark, over the rushing noise of the retreating waves. She has never called him James before.
—
The day after the ball she returns to the forge. She isn't quite sure what it is she wants, only that she feels she has missed something. She hopes, but does not entirely believe, it is Will.
Still, she is here.
—
It is her first kiss. It is not what she has imagined.
3.
She does not dance with Norrington again for nearly a year. His confirmation as post captain is sufficient pretext for a ball, and she has reserved the first two without being asked. She has told herself it is not hope, merely anticipation; Captain Norrington would request to dance with the Governor's daughter whether he desired to or not. She has anticipated correctly.
"So, you're a proper Captain now," she teases, and trails a daring finger across the white lapel of his crisp new uniform.
"And you have learned to flirt since I've been gone," he murmurs, low and without looking at her, so that she almost thinks she has imagined it. She tries to catch his eye, to show him that he does not intimidate her anymore, but when he does look at her it is with a new and fierce look, a look he might turn on a midshipman who spoke out of turn.
She understands why it is said that Norrington's men would follow him to the ends of the earth.
She does not look away, though. She has had a great deal of time to think, this past year. Perhaps it has not been enough. She chooses her words carefully.
"Last time we danced was at my début, was it not?"
It is not really a question. "Indeed."
"Mm. As I recall, we took a very pleasant turn in the gardens."
Again, there is only one possible response. "We did indeed. Would you care to take another?"
She cannot keep a hint of triumph out of her smile. Later she will realize what a mistake this is, to let a man like this see that one thinks one has beaten him.
"I should be delighted, Captain."
—
Letting him see that she thinks she has won is her first mistake.
Trying to kiss him is her second.
He is gentle, but firm. He is a gentleman. She does not miss the look in his eyes: he means for her to see it. There is torment there, but also steel. He will not bend. Knowing that he wants to, desperately wants to—wants her, maybe as much as she has wanted him—does not make it easier.
She is wretched. She thinks, looking back, that she may have hit him. That would be a third mistake.
—
That night she imagines running away. This is not a new dream.
Before, she has always imagined it the same way: cutlasses and bare feet and rough breeches, plunder and peril on the high seas. There is romance, sometimes and vaguely, for she is not entirely sure she wants that at all, only that she ought to—but more often the dream is pure adventure.
(Elizabeth Swann has never actually seen a pirate, much less spoken to or touched one. When she does, the dream will be modified somewhat. But that is still to come.)
Now she imagines herself a lieutenant in navy blue, simple and hard-working and proud. She imagines herself earning her commander's respect, his rare brilliant smiles. She imagines following him to the ends of the earth.
She slips two of her rough, slender fingers inside, and thinks of the sea.
4.
She does realize it is all he can offer her. She knows she should take it. Knows it is a good match; knows even the compromise with him will be better, richer, more satisfying than the alternative with Will. She will, at least, have some part of what she wants. She has figured that much out by now: she knows that simple lust is no small part of it. Still, it is not all.
She knows that if she says no he will not ask again.
No, he will not ask again, but her resolve will wear away every time she sees him, until she will wind up contriving some way to beg him to have her.
She knows that if she says no—she must say no—she will have to escape, and quickly. She will have to get away from him before her dignity fails her entirely. Will has not his strength; Will loves her. Will she can persuade, work upon. Will can be tempted into adventure.
She knows that if she says no—she must say no—she will regret it always.
She knows that if she says yes—she wants to say yes—she will regret it always.
She cannot breathe. She cannot answer him. She cannot breathe.
She falls.
_____________________
Note: I like to think of this story as being non-DMC-compliant, but of course it's set entirely before that film. This is my Norrington, though: painfully upright and honourable to the point of being a little ridiculous—and really, it's DMC that doesn't comply with him, not the other way around.
Shades of Scarlett O'Hara here and there—I was reading a lot of Faulkner around the same time as I was writing this, and reading Faulkner gave me the urge to watch Gone With The Wind one night when I had writer's block, and then a bit of that crept into my Elizabeth. I think it's appropriate, though. They're cut from the same cloth.
I'm tempted to call this story simply Norrington/Elizabeth, but then, she actually gets more action from Will than from Norrington. That wasn't intentional, I swear.
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