Your Move
Chapter 5 - End Game
by
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 3/31/08
Beta: veronica_rich and gryphons_lair. Thanks, ladies, couldn't have done it without you.
Note: Kind of a bittersweet end. Read at your own peril.
Originally Posted: 3/31/08
Beta: veronica_rich and gryphons_lair. Thanks, ladies, couldn't have done it without you.
Note: Kind of a bittersweet end. Read at your own peril.
The door to my study opened. I didn't bother to look up. The scent of her perfume, the faint attar of roses, preceded her. The scratch of my pen moved in tandem with the shush-shush made by her gown as she moved toward the window.
"Don't, my dear." I admonished. My voice thin and, my God, was it quivering? I sounded almost ill. No, I sounded old. I coughed. "I'll do it before I go to bed. The storm hasn't broken yet, and it's as hot as blazes in here. Every now and then I get a faint breeze. Which is the only thing saving me from ripping up all this odious correspondence and flinging it into the grate."
"It's late, James. Surely that can wait until morning," she tut-tutted.
I signed my name to a letter, the "J" of James bold, the "L" of my middle initial anchoring the sharply angular "N" of Norrington. One down, thirty to go.
"Afraid not. The war toms toms are getting louder. The ministry should be casting cannon, not reading reports. However, reports from the exhausted pen of its Admiralty are much less expensive than paying for cannons. Therefore..." I swiped a broad hand across the desk, indicating the hours and hours of tedium I had ahead.
"So you're not coming to bed yet? I'd hoped..." she murmured and two elegant hands caressed my shoulders with the lightest of touches, a mouth nestled an earlobe. A raven-colored curl grazed my cheek.
I did nothing, neither leaned toward her nor pulled away. Not tonight, I told myself. Willing myself not to flinch from her touch. Not on nights like this. She stopped.
"James," her voice quiet. "I felt the baby quicken today."
I smiled and leaned into her. Smoothing my hand over her belly, I caressed the lovely swell of her stomach and tilted my head up so that she could see my smile. "I hope it's girl. And I hope she looks like you."
She blushed at the compliment, long black lashes fluttered over grey eyes. A generous mouth tipped up in a shy smile. "I'd like a girl," she agreed. "If we have another son like Jack, we will be candidates for Bedlam."
We shared a broad grin.
"The child is a total hellion. I cannot conceive where we went wrong," I put a false note of disappointment in my voice to counter what I really felt. A more incorrigible, mischievous, infuriating, lovable, and delightful child had never been born. Well, perhaps there had been but he hadn't been my son. "We've gone through every nanny within a hundred miles. I'm beginning to think that..." Then an elusive breeze curled in through the open window and I turned my head to catch just the edge of it. Once a sailor, always a sailor. I doubt Caroline could smell it but I could. The Thames was at full tide.
"You're not here, James, are you?"
"Pardon?" I turned my attention back to her. Reluctantly.
"On nights like these. Not here," her voice was calm, but the fingers resting on the one shoulder curved in slightly, betraying her. "You're not here. Where are you? Back in Port Royal? No rain, no wife, no family, just your men, your ships, the sun, the ocean. Not here," she repeated. "Are you?"
I'd made a silent vow the day we married that I'd never lie to her. That this marriage would only be successful if I were honest with her about my expectations and, sadly to say, my lack of them. I had no secrets from her save one.
"No, I'm not," I smiled in a vain attempt to relieve her, to give her some peace of mind, but neither of us were fooled. Often that sort of smile is more painful than the grimace; to both the person bestowing the false sense of normalcy and the person receiving it. "It will pass. It always does." I turned my head to kiss first the one finger resting on my shoulder, then the other. They tasted of rose water.
A small sigh and she was moving toward the door. The kisses had been nothing more than a sop, and she was too intelligent not to know them for what they were.
"Good night, my dear," she said over her shoulder, knowing that any further conversation between us would be pointless. She pulled the door shut with a determined snap. I'd buy her a present tomorrow. It wouldn't mitigate her anguish that she'd never be enough, that she only owned the Admiral's heart, not the man's, but it might at least assure her that the man's heart belonged to no one. She had no real rivals. Other than the past.
Afraid she'd stay until the rain actually hit, I sighed with much relief. It only happened on nights like this, when the humidity sat heavy and wet on London's spires waiting for the rain to lash down. When the wind blew hot, scattering the blossoms of the flowers as the storm's fingers began to wrap themselves around the land and the maids and butlers of London's elite threw open the windows of parlors and bedrooms in a vain effort to steal a little air before the thunderstorm hit. Our windows were open as well but not for the errant breeze, despite my declaration.
That was not what I was waiting for.
It was only in the few tight minutes before the rain crashed down that I'd hear it. I hadn't heard it for a year, but I still waited for it, fingers clenched around whatever I could grab, the back of a chair, my own knees, the hilt of my sword, my quill. Just something to help with the anticipation.
It would come on the breeze, bringing with it the smell of the sea. It had been ten years since I'd left, but with one hot breath of wind I was back in the Caribbean. First I tasted the salt in the air, then felt the heat of the sun on the back of my neck.
And then I'd hear it.
His laugh.
I'd swear on the life of my son that it was his laugh. Always distant, as if he were in the next room. But his. Husky, happy, from the deepest part of his belly. In the morning I would tell myself that it was far off thunder, that my mind was playing tricks on me. The chimney in the parlor needed cleaning. Perhaps the rumble of a carriage outside my front door. Perhaps. But not tonight. Hearing it was both the sweetest balm and the worst agony. The memories refreshed themselves, and it was impossible to separate out the joy from the sorrow. What had been and what was lost.
There it was! My hands started shaking, and, without meaning to, I dropped my quill, leaving a ragged streak of ink across the page of the letter I'd just finished. The rain began, the rat-tat-tat of water as it danced against the panes. I eased up out of my chair and tried not to groan as a pain as familiar as my own name raced across my shoulders. With a wince, I shut the windows and curled my hand over the edges of the drapes to wrench them closed. Once the rain came, the moment would be over. I'd not hear him again. The heavy drapes muffled most of the sound, but I could still hear the storm as it swooped over the city. A nasty night. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
I was done. I doubt I could even hold a quill, the rumble of that laugh had been so true. I straightened up and tried to roll my shoulder in a vain attempt to ease away some of the pain. Damn it to hell; it was perpetually sore these days. An old battle wound come back to haunt me. Permanently. Maybe I needed a glass of Armagnac. It would dull the pain, hopefully enough so that I could eek out a few hours of sleep. By the time I'd finished my snifter, Caroline would be asleep. Or at least pretending to be.
No sooner did I reach the sideboard when the door to my study opened.
"I won't need you any further tonight, Simon," I said wearily, not bothering to turn around. I grabbed the neck of the decanter to still my trembling hand and poured myself a hefty glassful. "It's late, and I'm nearly off to bed myself. Good night." With my free hand, I reached around to rub my shoulder. Christ, it burned like the devil in weather like this. The rain and damp made it a thousand times worse, and it rained more often than not in London; sun was a precious commodity.
"Having trouble reaching, James?"
God, now I was hallucinating. I closed my eyes. Truly, I was going mad. First the laugh, now his voice. "Damn you to hell, Jack Sparrow. Damn you," I whispered and banged the decanter down on the sideboard, heedless of whether it broke or not.
"Speak up, James. Hearing's not what it used to be, and I can't hear your mumblings, although by the look on your face you're not exactly singing my praises."
And there he was. My pirate. In my study.
He stood in the doorway, leaning on a cane. His hair was completely white, pulled back from his shoulders, and tied into a queue. The trinkets were gone, as were the beard braids, he was clean-shaven. The red silk scarf was nowhere in evidence, but the hat was the same. And the voice, the voice was the same. And the kohl. The dark eyes magnified fivefold.
I gasped and stumbled toward him. I couldn't even say his name, only scratched out feral, horrible whimpers that threatened to scar my lungs. Twelve years since I'd held him. Christ! I wrapped him up in my arms and crushed him against me. Oh, the smell was the same, dear god, cinnamon and rum; slightly less pungent but the same. We folded into the nooks and crannies of each other like two halves of a puzzle piece. In the distance I heard the cane fall to the floor and his arms encircled me slowly.
As if twelve years were nothing, not a moment, he laid his right cheek against my shoulder as he was wont to do, and the familiar caress of a lazy figure eight wound it's way up and down my back. As always, the heat of his hand heated through the linen of my shirt.
I don't know how long we stood there. Holding each other, breathing in each other's scent, but finally Jack said, "Need to sit down, Jamie. Old bones. Get my cane, will you? Thanks, mate. Sorry to say I can't walk without the bloody thing. Fell off the rigging seven years ago trying to tie down a sail and my hip's never been the same. This London damp is murder on my joints. Will be a complete cripple by morning," he shrugged, accompanied by a mocking grin. "Shit," he moaned as he eased his way down on the settee. "Haven't found a way to cheat age. But give me a few more weeks. We're negotiating." He settled himself against a cushion with a grimace. "Afraid she's immune to my charms. Bitch."
"Your hair," I murmured and put out a hand to touch it. It used to be like touching black silk. "What happened to the trinkets?"
He raised a gnarled hand and caught my hand to give it a squeeze. "Got a bad fever one year, and Mr. Gibbs cut off my hair. When it grew back, I just didn't bother. But..." he began fingering the many pockets on his person—that hadn't changed and I'd wager there was a weapon in every single one—frowned, frowned again, and then he smiled. "I saved the bone for you."
His pulled out that dreadful bone that had nearly blinded me on more than one occasion, grabbed me by the wrist, and plopped it into my hand.
I laughed and I laughed. He began laughing with me.
When we were done, we were leaning against each other.
"You are a sight for sore eyes, James Norrington." He leaned back and gave me the once over. "The years have been kinder to you than they have been to me."
"I doubt that," I said with a grimace.
That got a thoughtful glance.
I had a sudden horrible thought. Why was he here?
"William?" I managed to eek out.
"Thought maybe you might think that. No, Mr. Turner is alive and well. He's with me now. After Lizzie died... You knew?"
I bowed my head in acknowledgment. "A fine woman, the likes of which will not be seen again."
When I didn't receive her usual Christmas letter, I imagined the worst. Four months later a letter arrived from New Orleans. Elizabeth had died in childbirth; William wrote that her agonized screams could be heard in Nassau. You might think it strange that a man would feel it a duty to inform his former rival in affection of his wife's demise, however, I would have expected nothing less. We were all bound to each other in this life, perhaps in the next as well if we are lucky.
"Aye," he agreed. "Groves—good man—sent word that no sooner was she buried and the bairn handed over to a wet nurse did Will began to kill himself with drink. I found him in the corner of the smithy, so drunk he made Mr. Brown look like a teetotaler. Took him a week to sober up. When he could stand the roll of a wave and not puke his guts up all over my deck, I commandeered the children, the nurse, and him, and set sail for New Orleans. Have a place on the Mississippi. Bought it with the swag from the Isla de Muerta." He gave me a sly glance, expecting me to interrupt. When I didn't, he continued. "Knew there was a bloody good reason why I never had children..." he paused. "Any that I know of. That brood of Will's? All tartars, especially that wee Liza. Spitting image of her mother, just as much of a handful as Lizzie was, in fact, worse, and as stubborn as my Will."
I rolled my eyes and we shared a commiserating grimace. Definitely not a winning combination, in my opinion. Then my stomach clenched. My Will was it? I couldn't help it. My mouth pursed in disapproval.
"James, you've got that nasty set to your mouth—"
The door opened and Caroline stepped in, Jackie in her arms. He was half asleep, his cheeks red and creased from slumber.
"James, I thought I heard... Laughter." Her voice went flat. "Mr. Sparrow, I presume."
Jack gave her an appraising once over and struggled to stand. I cupped his elbow to help him up, and the expression on Caroline's face went from wary to bleak. She knew him. It was impossible to talk about my years in the Caribbean without most of those tales featuring Jack in a large way. He was, frankly, the stuff of legend. My powers of description are rather meager, nevertheless, only a blind man would not have known that this was Jack Sparrow. Those damn kohled eyes of his the most obvious giveaway.
"Captain Sparrow, Madam. I haven't had the pleasure. Mrs. Commodore, I presume?" He doffed his hat with one of his most elegant flourishes.
By the thin line of her mouth, she was not impressed. "Mrs. Admiral, if you please."
He couldn't help but raise an amused eyebrow at that, and ran a more calculated, appraising eye over her person. Returning his frank appraisal with one of her own, she gave him a terse nod of the head and then turned to me.
"Jackie had a nightmare." She glared at me as if I were responsible. Then her glance softened as it came to rest on the head of our son. "Would you kiss him goodnight again?"
Jack Sparrow always had a way of overwhelming whatever world you were in. How easy it had been to forget that I, an admiral of the Rear White, was sitting thigh to thigh with a former pirate captain. Because when he was in the room there was laughter and play and passion. It was only when he left the room that one's folly became all too clear. With a shock that I realized that I had slipped without notice into my Port Royal self. Caroline's command brought me back to my study. In London. Much older, but apparently no wiser. My son's plaintive, "Papa?" anchored me there. The rough cloth of Jack's coat scratched my palm. I let go and walked over to where Caroline was standing, Jackie slumped in her arms.
"Young man, no more shenanigans tonight," I admonished. I pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes and kissed his forehead. "Go to sleep right away or no games tomorrow."
"Play pirates?"
Somehow I managed to say in a normal voice, "Yes, we'll play pirates, but only if you go to sleep forthwith."
Caroline spun around, away from us. Expecting her to maintain some sort of polite sham, I had overestimated her. Heaven knows what she saw on my face, in the depths of my eyes, but whatever she had gleaned, it had her marching across the room to the door without a word, not even so much as a goodnight. Once there, she hitched Jackie into one arm, opened the door, gave Jack such a fierce look that if I'd been him I'd have reached for the closest knife on my person, and then slammed the door on her exit.
Jack eased himself back down onto the sofa. Once settled, he murmured, "Sweet wee lad."
I nodded, unsure of what to say.
"Apple of his father's eye?"
"Yes, he is." I did not add that there was only one person in my entire life that had come close to the love I felt for that child.
"And another on the way? Been a busy man, James. Named him Jack, I see. Good name."
Oh god, teasing, coy Jack.
"Yes, we are expecting again." That "we" stuck in my throat a bit. "He was christened John, but given that the child is a complete hellion, we changed it to Jack. If there's a way to break something, he will. If there's a way to climb it, he will. That child could scale a wall of glass. He's absolutely incorrigible." I sniffed to punctuate how my life was nothing more than a vale of tears with that child.
Which did not fool him in the slightest. He laughed. His hand went to cup my cheek and then stopped. I did not pull away, but I did not ease into that hand either. Yes, I said silently, there are rules now.
"Got yourself a tartar, mate." He jerked his head at Caroline's portrait, the one I'd commissioned last year. The painter had done her justice, the deep gray of her eyes, the slender, graceful arch to her neck. Why was it only tonight that I noticed that the artist had painted a quite determined set to her jaw? "Always dock your ship in a pirate's port, don't you, James? Lizzie, me," he said with a wink, "and now the Missus."
"A pirate? Are you mad?" I blustered. "Elizabeth, I concede. You?" I let out an enormous huff. As if there were any question! "Caroline's father was an admiral," I said rather primly.
"So? Lizzie was the daughter of a governor and a pirate through and through." He pointed his cane at the picture and snorted. "Who'd know a pirate when they see one? Jack Sparrow, that's who. Woman would've run me through given half a chance."
I made to deny it but I could not. As always with Jack, and why I would expect anything different I don't know, the conversation was taking a most alarming turn.
"Are you hungry?" I said, somewhat stiffly.
He grinned and slid a dirty nail down the gap between his front teeth.
"Mrs. Pince hasn't lost her touch. Made the best pastry in Port Royal and now the best in London, I wager. Filled my belly up with tart and a pot of tea while me and Simon commiserated over the sad state of our hips."
I'd always suspected that he'd worked his considerable wiles on my servants. It certainly explained why neither of them ever commented on the streaks of kohl bespoiling on my sheets those Friday mornings so long ago.
"You brought them back to England with you, I see."
That brought up an issue I was determined never to visit.
"Your Mr. Turner is well?" I had not meant to sound churlish, but I fairly growled the question.
"William's managing," he said slowly. "Not what you think, James."
"Oh, so you're not fucking him," I mocked. "I know you. Do you expect me to believe..."
He put a calloused finger to my lips.
"Stop, James Lysander Norrington," he ordered in a low voice. His angry voice. I've heard it only heard twice before. I heeded it, but yanked my face away in protest.
"He's not you and never will be. Yes, we're fucking. Just like you're swiving that wife of yours. He and I've made do. Just like you've made do." He pointed at the portrait again with his cane. "And that saucy governess will do nicely for Will when I'm gone. She'll fill his bed and mother his children. Lizzie would like her. She hadn't been in the house more than a week before she hauled back and blackened my eye." He tilted his face toward me as if the black eye were still in evidence.
"Thoroughly misinterpreted your intensions, I'm sure," I said with so much ice that I was amazed that stalactites didn't magically appear on my ceiling.
That got the trademark Sparrow smirk and saucy twinkle.
"May be old, but I'm not dead."
Instead of getting the smile he intended, his wry joke filled me with a white rage. I bolted from the sofa to rummage around the hearth with the poker, despite the fact there was no fire. Because if I didn't do something with my hands, I would have reared back and hit him. Yes, we'd both tumbled from relative youth into the yawn of old age. And not together. All those chess games we never played. The bottles of wine never shared. How could he? And yet I could stop myself...
"You never came back," I bit out. I had waited for two solid years and then could stand no more. The very sight of a cerulean blue sky and the smell of night-blooming jasmine rendered me ill. I returned to England.
"You still do that, I see. Play with the fire poker when you're trying not to go on a tear. Had a noose around my neck once. Didn't fancy it at the time and doubted I'd like it a second time. I sent back the queen. You knew I wasn't coming back, James."
He gestured toward the chess set, sitting majestically in its permanent place in a corner of the room, all the pieces squatting in the middle of their designated squares, the jade of the queens soft and pale in the weak light of the candles. I hadn't played in years. It was too painful. Yes, I'd received the queen back. An oiled packet had mysteriously appeared on my desk one morning, containing only the queen and a piece of paper that said, "Stalemate" and signed CJS, the serif of his pen as bold and saucy as ever.
He'd taken to stealing my queen whenever he'd leave, slipping it into his pocket before he'd sneak out the backdoor. The first time he did it, he said, "Something to remember you by, mate." Then he had melted into dawn's shadows on his way to the smithy or the stables at the Governor's mansion, or wherever he hid for day while waiting for dusk to cloak his skiff as he rowed back to the Pearl. I took to carrying his queen with me, nestling it in the brim of my hat. I'd remove it and fondled it when writing letters or when I'd take that rare moment to stop and breathe in the sea air. I'd run my thumb over the sharp edges of the carved jade and think, "Jack. Three more days."
"After two years you still hadn't chosen. I had to choose for you."
"I... I..." I croaked out, unable to defend myself, unable to protest. Leaning against the mantle piece, I buried my forehead into the crook of my elbow, clutching the handle of the poker as if a lifeline. I had failed him once, when I had done nothing to stop the authorities from hanging him, even though I knew that he deserved it not. Despite a personal vow to not repeat that weakness of character, I had failed him a second time.
No, I could not choose. The same man who was humbled and broken and remade every single time we coupled, was the same man who was the envy of much of the navy for the seaworthiness of his ships and the battle-worthiness of his sailors. I was as much Jack's man as I was the King's man. Both of these men watched as the might of His Majesty's Navy whittled away at was to become the pirates' brief hold over the seas. I watched pirate captain after pirate captain tried and hung, until there was only Jack left, thereby earning the notoriety he'd so fervently sought over the years; he was the last great pirate, and, therefore, the greatest prize.
"I'm reminding you that there was no place in your world for me, your ginger-haired lad made that clear—by the way, my jaw still aches every now and then; he had a fearsome left hook—and while we might have shifted and made room for you in mine, you didn't board that ship but on Thursday nights and Friday mornings."
No, I had not, I could not. As pirate after pirate succumbed to the noose, I found myself making daily trips to church, praying to a god I was less and less sure existed as my dilemma deepened with every passing week. I took some comfort that my prayers—whatever propels that ship, whether it be by your grace or the hand of Satan, I beg of you, please, God-speed Jack Sparrow—continued to be answered as Jack evaded capture. It truly never occurred to me that I could have left the service. He never asked that of me and I never considered it.
We were playing with fire, the hottest of flames. Betrayal, thy name is Norrington. He came back, again and again, and every time I welcomed Jack into my house, my bed, I betrayed my king, my country, and my men. Every hanging I attended was a betrayal of Jack. Oh, these weren't "good" pirates by any stretch of the imagination. They were the worst of men: murderers and ruffians every one of them. But His Majesty's Navy would not distinguish Jack in any manner from these criminals. It was only a matter of time before he was captured, forcing me to choose, betraying myself no matter which path I walked. For I was both men. The lover of Jack Sparrow and the Commodore of Port Royal. I would be on the precipice again, and I knew not if I would jump. I only knew that choice was untenable.
"When they caught ole Teach, I knew it was time to lower the flag, James. Thought you'd do this." I lifted my head. "Come back to this God-forsaken freezing sod. Make a name for yourself." He looked around the room, calculating the worth of every object. Once a thief, always a thief. "Suits you, this does."
"Forgive me?"
He cocked his head, all the anger gone.
"There's nothing to forgive. You couldn't be any less than the man you were. Fate wasn't very kind to us, was it? A man like yourself, all spit and polish, falling in love with a pirate. And me. A man who never met a wind he didn't want to catch or steal," he wriggled his eyebrows, "falling in love with a naval commodore. Someone had a good laugh at our expense, James. But we did all right, didn't we? Fucked each other more in two years than most people do in a lifetime. Now, you've got your bonny son and fair piratey lass, belly full of child; I've got Will to warm my bed."
No, I wanted to shout. We didn't do all right. It was like my heart was continuously skipping beats and my lungs were too tight, I never could draw enough breath. And yes, my marriage was...
"Is she as much of a tartar in bed and she is out of it? Like my women with a bit of bite. Wager you do too."
It was as twelve years hadn't passed, and we were in my small sitting room at Port Royal, gossiping and teasing each other as we finished up our meal before heading upstairs. I laughed and let go of the poker; it clattered on to the hearth. I picked it up and hung it next to the bellows.
"I'm eaten up with curiosity here, James," he huffed.
I brought myself up straight and turned to face him, an evil little smile played on my lips. Caroline had been closer to thirty than twenty-five when we met. She'd come out with some fanfare and then passed over by those idiotic men who wanted nothing more than a coquette or a brood mare for a wife. We'd been introduced at a party at her father's house, and she'd caught my attention by being one of the few women of my acquaintance—Elizabeth Swann had been another—who was not ashamed that she had a brain. I have always found intelligence attractive. Fortunately for me, those brains were coupled with a deeply passionate nature and a luscious curve to her bottom lip.
"Yes, she's marvelous."
Not quite the answer he was expecting, his frown was a thing of beauty. The gratification at seeing that enormous ego get a thorough bruising had not paled.
"Better than me?" he demanded.
"You are still,"I pointed at him with a stern finger, "a monster of vanity. No, but good enough. William?" I couldn't help but do a spot of my own fishing.
"As you say, good enough," he grinned. "But not..." His voice faltered and his smile fell for the briefest of instants before it came back. Something eased in me at recognizing that the years had been as horrible and lonely for him as they had been for me. Yes, we had made do.
Of course, Jack had spent his whole life making do: the unforgiving father abandoning his eldest son to the navy, which didn't stop him from becoming one of the finest sailors to stand on a deck; the abuse of Jock Ritchie that turned him pirate, but what a pirate; and, finally, the pirate who'd realized his time was at an end, and had refused to be sacrificed. Jack had a way of cheating fate. If fate was nothing more than a card game, Jack had slipped a number of aces up his sleeve. I might be a formidable chess player, but cards was not my forte. Games of strategy I understood. Games of chance? Jack was not afraid of the dice roll. And if it turned up snake eyes, well, there was always another roll, another opportunity to warm the dice in the palm of your hand, shake them for luck, and say a small prayer as they hit the felt once more.
Because I'd refused to play, the game was played for me. My hair might not be white, but my soul had aged irreparably. It was not fair to say that Caroline and Jackie were nothing more than making do, I loved my son with an unholy passion, and, if asked, I would say I loved my wife and it would be true. But it was not the same.
I looked at the door. A few quick steps across the room and I eased the lock shut. Sitting down beside him, I took his hands in mine. They were worn and thin from a lifetime of pulling rope and fighting with the wind. I kissed them.
"Why are you here, Jack?"
"The ostensible reason—didn't know I knew that word, did you?—is that the Pearl's got a hold full of cotton. Respectability. Don't recommend it."
He couldn't hide the contempt.
"You will never be respectable. You could be an emissary to Rome and you would still be a reprobate. How could I forget, you did impersonate a priest at some point, didn't you?" That got a chuckle and a deprecating shrug. "A cotton merchant? It does explain the lack of pirate—?"
"Patois? Aye, the drunken pirate act doesn't get me very far with the cotton traders. The educated son of a respectable curate? Very far." He gave me his most wicked smile. "Another reason why I had to say goodbye to my jewels and trinkets. Merchants are the stuffiest lot I've run across. Worse than you naval gobs," he complained.
"Surely not. You must take care not to show those teeth of yours. All that gold will give you away. And the real reason?"
"To say good-bye." He said it simply, as if it were of no report. I tightened my hands on his involuntarily. He winced. "Got a bit of rheumatism in my hands, James." I eased up but didn't let go. "The sea smells so sweet these nights, and the wind rips through me like I'm nothing more than a ghost. But most of all, her deck is slowly growing cold under my feet." No need to ask who she was. Jack's first love had always been the Pearl. Being a sailor myself, I could never be jealous of her. "My last trip, I reckon. William will make the next run. He's turned into quite the sailor. Be a good man and see to it that he's all right for me, will you, James?"
As I freely acknowledged that curses exist and that undead sailors may march along the floor of the sea, I could not deny the certainty I heard in Jack's voice.
"You are not afraid?"
"The last great adventure, mate," he crowed, slipping back easily into his piratese. He then said in a manufactured stage whisper, "I've heard it on good authority that it will be day after day, night after night of the finest sail on God's earth. The wind perfect, the sails all smart with nary a rent or rip in them. The wheel under my hands. The ship cutting into every wave with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The Pearl, of course, best ship in land or..." he waved a hand, "wherever."
I couldn't help but smile. "A very pretty picture. Who is this great authority?"
"Me," he thumped himself on the chest with all the swagger and confidence for which he was infamous. It was certainly better than envisioning hell's fires or even heaven's lyres. "Bring me that horizon." His eyes flashed. "I'll wait for you, James. I won't leave the dock until you join me. We'll sail together. We've never done that. I don't count that bit on the Dauntless. You had me in the brig half the time," he pointed out quite rightly.
"My apologies. No, that doesn't count," I agreed.
Some tremendous knot in me loosened. God had watched over this most wayward of sons up until now. There was nothing to say that Jack's vision of heaven (and I had no doubt that that was exactly where he was going) was not the perfect ship sailing on the perfect day into the perfect wind. Who's to say that I wouldn't join him at heaven's tiller when it was my time?
"I sail tomorrow with the early morning tide. I wanted to see you once more before we set off. God's teeth, James, the sight of you," he said in his huskiest tone.
I made a decision. For one night I would turn pirate. I would steal temporarily what fate had decreed could never be mine, only borrowed. I leaned into him, my mouth brushing the curl of his ear. I heard him rasp.
"One last night. On the Pearl," I begged in a low voice, caring not one whit that my desperation was more than evident in my strident whisper.
Even as he leaned back into me, tucking his head into the crook of my neck, he confessed. "I didn't come here for that. Didn't know which way the wind was blowing, frankly. Got a bit of a temper, you do. Thought you might as well kiss me as shoot me."
I kissed his neck. Once.
"Mrs. Admiral?"
"I trust she will understand. I will not lie to her." I was throwing the dice for the first time in my life, hoping against hope it didn't turn up snake eyes. "I must come back before dawn."
"Savvy," was all he said and ducked his head so I couldn't see his face. He hoisted himself up with a groan and made for the door.
Once in the foyer, I was halfway into my great coat when the faint light from a candelabra accentuated our shadows, exposing our flight.
Caroline stood there on the stairs above us, hand on her stomach. Given that I had my coat on, there could be no question that I was leaving. Given the straight line of her mouth, no question with whom.
"Caroline, one night. That's all I ask," I implored. "He is sailing with the tide and will not be back."
She said nothing for a few seconds, perhaps palming her own set of dice.
"You will come back to me, James," she asked, finally.
"Yes," I said without hesitation.
This was my home, she was my wife, the mother of my children. Jack and I had a mere six hours to mock fate. I would return. Where I belonged.
Her shoulders fell a fraction in relief. "Captain Sparrow," her fine contralto echoed in the corners of the foyer. "My husband shall be in my bed by sunrise. If not, I will hunt you down, cut off your balls, and make you eat them for breakfast, tide or no tide. Are we clear?"
He doffed his hat and bowed in agreement, whispering under his breath as he bent over, "Told you she was a pirate."
She turned her back on us and escaped behind a door. I would make it up to her and be true to her for the rest of our days. Jack was right. I had a penchant for pirates.
Making for the study again, I hushed Jack's impatient, "Now what, James? For the love of God, we've got damn little time, and I want you to fuck me into the mattress..."
I picked up both queens and slipped them into the pocket. I would leave them on his pillowcase before I left the ship. A reminder to wait for me. That the game was not yet done, only delayed.
Fin. Finally.
Prev
Leave a Comment
(If you're commenting about a specific chapter, please mention that.)
Read Comments
(Warning: May contain spoilers!)