Commodore James Norrington has a secret he will take to the grave.

It is not that he thinks his wig confoundedly itchy and wholly unsuited for Caribbean climes (although this is, in fact, true).

It is not that he was sent to Port Royal to extricate him from a dreadful scandal back home ("scandal" is such an melodramatic word, and "dreadful" is entirely objective).

And it is not that he is concealing piles and piles of treasure, confiscated from various pirates (how this particular rumour started is a mystery).

It is that he does not love Elizabeth Swann. Not that he is no longer in love with Elizabeth Swann, but that there never was a point at which he was in love with her.

It cannot be denied that he asked for her hand in marriage, and had every intention of marrying her. But love is not the only reason one marries. There is duty.

A commodore should be married, though he will likely spend more time away from his wife than with her. A commodore—a proper English commodore—should have a beautiful, well-bred, gracious wife at his side when he appears at social functions; a wife who understands the importance of appearances, who will host parties and charm all the influential guests (the need for heirs is an indelicate subject, and shall be mentioned no further).

Yes, he was displeased when Miss Swann threw him over for young Mr. Turner; he is fortunate that the citizens of Port Royal took his reaction for signs of a broken heart.

But it is not a broken heart that darkens his face and tightens his jaw when he thinks of Miss Swann's impending nuptials.

It is that Commodore James Norrington hates to lose.