Entry tags:
PotC fic: Keepsakes (Jack/OFCs, PG-13, 5/5)
Title: Keepsakes
Author:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shyaway
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/various OFCs
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and its characters belong to Disney.
Sequel compliant?: No.
Summary: Five women reflect on what Jack Sparrow left behind, with laughter and regret, with gratitude and dislike...
Helen had harboured no romantic illusions about pirates as a child. She knew that they were thieves and murderers, just like highwaymen, and the Hampshire village where she grew up had too much experience with highway robbery to have any foolish notions about the romance of brigandry. The village lay on one of the most dangerous roads in England. Almost every day a traveller would stagger in having been set upon and robbed, and it was not uncommon for bodies to be found by the wayside. Helen knew not to walk far from the village alone. When, at fifteen, her cousin secured her a place in the city as maid to a Mrs Bettesworth and she had to travel to London by stagecoach, she fully expected the coach to be held up. But the journey passed without incident. So did the sea-crossing a few years later when the Bettesworths moved to Jamaica to keep a closer eye on their plantation. (Or so they said. The servants knew very well that it was because Mr Bettesworth could no longer fend off his creditors.) Helen’s qualms about sailing through pirate-infested waters proved unfounded; at least, their ship was not attacked.
She did not see a pirate, even during the raid on Port Royal, until the hanging that followed it. Usually she did not attend the executions, but Kitty the scullery maid had a fancy to see one of the condemned – Jack Sparrow – and wanted someone to go with her.
The hanging did not take place. Instead Captain Sparrow escaped with some help from the blacksmith. They fled out onto the parapet, and Will Turner came back with the news of the pirate’s escape to his ship, and of his own engagement to Miss Swann. "Damn it," Kitty said. "She could have had the commodore – why did she have to take the one we had a chance of getting?" Helen barely heard her. She walked home in a daze, her mind overflowing with Captain Jack Sparrow, how he’d looked when he’d laughed, what a loss it would have been if he’d died, how relieved she had been when he got away.
Was that all it took, then, to overcome years of righteous condemnation of piracy and all its practitioners; fine eyes and finer thighs?
Apparently.
---
Two years later she was in the garden gathering roses for Mrs Bettesworth. It was a beautiful, still summer’s day and she was taking her time, sitting on the grass beside the rose bush and checking that each flower was perfect before cutting it. There was little noise around her. Mrs Bettesworth was in the garden with some friends, but they were some way off and she could hardly hear the murmur of their voices.
With no breeze she heard the rustle of leaves quite clearly. There was a thud and a jangle, as if someone had jumped down from the vine-covered garden wall. Helen poked her head out from behind the bush to see.
She gasped. He, in all his glorious shabby splendour, was there, as suddenly and completely as if he had materialised out of thin air like a genie.
Hearing her gasp, he spun towards her, pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her head.
Genies, they said, were capricious creatures. She took another breath, one that sounded like a whimper.
"Quiet," the apparition warned. "I don’t want to shoot you, but if you start screaming murder or fire or whatever else takes your fancy, I’ll have nothing to lose. Savvy?"
She jiggled her head up and down.
"Then you can just walk over there – not towards the house, the other way – I’ll be on my way, and if the marines should happen to come by, you haven’t seen me." He gestured her away with the pistol.
She slowly started to rise to her feet. The wavering of the weapon, indicating she was no longer in immediate danger of being shot, made her stomach heave with relief, and restored some of her fascination with the man before her. This was Captain Jack Sparrow! For two years she had assiduously followed his exploits. She had never quite worked up the nerve to ask Mr Turner how his pirate friend was, but she had surreptitiously read Mr Bettesworth’s newspapers when she was supposed to be pressing his shirts, and had been rewarded by the discovery of articles about the plunderings of the Black Pearl and her captain, ‘the notorious Villain, Jack Sparrow.’ Well, he hadn’t been so villainous as to shoot her, and he was there in the flesh, just as she’d spent the past two years wishing him to be …
"Captain Sparrow," she whispered, her voice an absurd squeak.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"You’re Captain Jack Sparrow!"
"Aye. I know. Do you want me to stamp my feet and disappear into a crack in the earth never to be seen again, just because you know me name?"
"I was there that day they tried to hang you! I saw Mr Turner rescue you! I – was so glad when you escaped."
His expression softened at the outpouring of approval. "Mr Turner," he said, lowering the pistol, "assisted me on my way. Now, you have me at a disadvantage, miss, since you know my name and I haven’t had the pleasure … ?"
"Helen Godwin – " She would have said more, only they both became aware of the marines shouting in the street.
"They’re looking for me," he said. "Delighted to have made your acquaintance, Miss Godwin; I must be off." He tucked the pistol into his sash and turned to go.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You can’t go that way! The mistress is entertaining guests – they’ll see you. And they will scream blue murder and bring the marines in."
"What’s the best way out of here, then?"
"Through the house. There’ll be nobody about." She paused to relish the moment. This was superb good luck; her life had intersected with her idol’s, and now she was about to become a footnote – or more, please more – in the Legend of Captain Jack Sparrow. The Lay of Jack and Helen. Or something like that. "I’ll show you the way." Without further ado she took his left hand in hers, entwined her right arm around his elbow, and propelled him towards the house. Delightfully, he didn’t resist, though his dark eyes did swivel from side to side checking for potential traps. Helen noticed that because, instead of watching for the danger of discovery, she was staring at him. Gazing. Feasting her eyes. He didn’t mind the scrutiny.
He looked much the same as he had two years ago. That had been her initial impression. But then she looked again and thought no, he was quite different, yet she couldn’t say how. After some protracted staring, and clutching his arm, through which she could feel the rise and fall of his rolling gait (dear God), she decided that he was like the sea: shimmering, undulating, always the same, never the same, with a sparkle that surfaced in one place only to vanish and reappear somewhere else. (Was that sensation in the pit of her stomach seasickness?) Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Fleetingly Helen wondered if she had taken leave of her senses and was tiptoeing through the Bettesworths’ house with her arms full of roses rather than pirate. She dismissed the idea. He certainly smelled real. In fact anything less like the scent of a rose then his odour could scarcely be imagined. Sweat, smoke, and stale alcohol invaded her nostrils; and his hair looked crusty with salt. Pity there was no chance of giving him a bath.
It was an even greater pity that, having to be quiet to avoid attracting attention, she could not talk to him. Obviously Jack, being a veteran of subterfuge, understood that too, as all he’d said to her was "This is very kind of you." There had been a twinkle in his eye as he’d said it that almost made up for the lack of conversation since.
Unable to ask about his adventures, she simply stared. Was there any physical difference? Though she hadn’t had a good look at his hands two years ago, she thought he now wore more rings. He was wearing a coat and hat that he hadn’t had at the hanging. Neither looked new; they were both so well-worn as to be of indeterminate colour, and the coat was somewhat threadbare.
And yet, she mused as they reached the entrance hall, he did not look out of place in this house with its trappings of Port Royal high society. His portrait could sit easily enough on these walls alongside the likenesses of the lords and ladies the Bettesworths knew. With a haircut and a shave he could even pass for a noble. He had an aristocratic nose. Was there such a thing as pirate nobility?
Her shoes and his boots were thudding loudly on the tiled floor, the rustle of her skirts was suddenly far too noisy, and Jack – there was no denying it - jangled. Beads, belts, sword. What a racket. To their right, Helen could hear the housekeeper talking to two of the maids in the dining room. She prayed briefly, fervently, that she and her guest would not be seen, and drew back the bolts on the front door and unlocked it. Almost there –
"Helen? What are you doing?" A woman’s voice. Not the housekeeper’s. The mistress’s. She stood at the end of the hall flanked by two other plantation owners, looking most concerned by this incursion into her home by a man who, for all his noble qualities, was clearly not one of her friends. For the second time that day Helen was rooted to the spot. How could she explain having escorted a wanted criminal through her employers’ home past all their valuables – even though he hadn’t stolen anything – she would lose her situation and what would she do out here thousands of miles from her family?
Jack – she might have known – had a better idea. No explanations. He made them a kind of half-bow, said something about hospitality and gratitude. Helen was thrilled to the core when he added, "And you won’t mind such an illustrious personage as myself making use of your maid. I’ve always wanted a geisha." He seized her hand. Helen found herself being pulled roughly, energetically, out of the door. Once again she couldn’t believe her luck
Out in the street they found the marines were almost upon them. "Which way inland out of the city?" Jack demanded.
"You’re not going to the docks?"
"That man’s abducting my maid!" Mrs Bettesworth screeched from her front door.
"Right!" Helen said quickly.
They sprinted down the street. Pedestrians jumped aside for the marines, clearing a path for the fugitives. The military’s shouts became angrier.
"This way!" They made a sharp left onto a narrower thoroughfare, from where Helen guided them into a series of alleyways.
"Why aren’t you going to the docks?" she asked again, panting.
"My ship is on the other side of the island – Saint Ann’s Bay."
"That – must be – thirty miles!" Too far. She’d be in no fit state to be a geisha, if that was anything like she thought it was, by the time they got there. Already she was lagging behind Jack and it was only his firm, warm grip on her hand that was making her keep up with him, simply by pulling her along. Their pursuers were still on their trail. Helen’s detour through the back streets had not put them off, for they were just as familiar with Port Royal as she was, and they remained close behind their prey.
Helen and Jack took another right turn and for the moment seemed to have left the marines behind. Ahead of them lay a wide street on the outskirts of the city. From there it was easy to get to the road inland.
A carriage stopped across the entrance of the alley, blocking their path. It was an enormous vehicle drawn by four horses.
Jack slowed down. He looked for a way around, or over, or under, but there was none, at least none that Helen could see. She was just thinking that perhaps he could hijack it when the carriage’s door was flung open. The woman who looked out was Mrs Turner, Miss Swann as was. She appeared to be quite recovered from her confinement. Behind her was her husband. Helen finally understood what she had not previously thought to wonder about, the reason for Jack’s being in Port Royal; he was there to visit his friends and their newborn baby. So the gossips were right – the governor’s daughter and son-in-law really were in communication with pirates.
"Jack! Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!" As she spoke, Mrs Turner drew him towards their conveyance, away from Helen.
What are you doing – you can’t leave me! "Jack – wait –"
He came back, took her in his arms, and gave her the disappointment of her life. "Oh, my dear. I wish I could take you with me. Honestly. But life aboard a ship is not for a lady such as yourself."
"But - !"
"The Black Pearl brooks no rival, darling. I’m sorry." The expression in his dark eyes communicated true regret. Helen almost believed him to be sincere.
He must have seen her doubts, because he leaned down and kissed her warmly. His moustache brushed her face; his soft mouth made her giddy and languorous all at once. If it wasn’t quite the manner of ending she had hoped for, then it was satisfactorily romantic.
She became aware of something hard in his pocket.
Closer inspection revealed that it actually was something hard residing in his pocket. Jack sheepishly proffered a candlestand that Helen recognised as part of an expensive set belonging to the Bettesworths. "Here. Say you retrieved it from me, or I gave it to you in tribute to your fair face."
"How did you –"
"Hurry up, Jack!" That was Mr Turner. Mrs Turner, standing with her hands on her hips, looked equally impatient, and Helen was brought abruptly back to the danger of their situation.
"I really must take my leave," Jack said, backing away. He followed Mrs Turner into the carriage.
"Goodbye," Helen whispered.
He doffed his hat to her. The carriage sped away. She watched them go until voices shouting her name reached her ears. She turned to see some marines, accompanied by a few members of the Bettesworth household, running towards her. Their manner suggested concerned for a distressed damsel rather than her imminent arrest. She was safe from repercussions, then.
She made no move towards them, just hugged her prize and watched them approach. These marines and footmen would not understand, but, once she was back among her friends, what a tale she would have to tell.
---
"Old friend?" Elizabeth asked archly as the carriage borrowed from her father bore them along the Windward Road.
"Quite a recent acquaintance, actually, but a very pleasant young lady. Where’s the sprog?"
"He’s at home with his nurse," Will said. "Did I just see you giving something back?"
"What, the candlestand? Didn’t you notice it was imitation? I confess I couldn’t tell at first glance, but once I’d picked it up I could hardly put it down again. No doubt a high-falutin’ family like that call it a Parisian guéridon, but it was a fake made here in Jamaica. Cross my heart. No one who knew what he was about would give a good price for it, and no one else would buy it at all. The guéridon’s a bit out of fashion these days, innit?"
"If you say so," said Will.
"Now these," Jack continued, pulling out a handful of silver, "are genuine. I can’t imagine why people leave their best cutlery and sugar-tongs and what-have-you lying around like that."
"Perhaps they don’t expect a pirate to come along and help himself to it," Elizabeth said, but as Jack had expected, she offered no more disapproval than that. "Who was that girl, really?"
"As I said - a pleasant young lady, who provided navigating assistance … and who has impeccable taste." She had been helpful in facilitating his escape…. He looked back, almost expecting to still see her standing there. The city was out of sight.
He didn’t look back again.
Author:
shyawayRating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/various OFCs
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean and its characters belong to Disney.
Sequel compliant?: No.
Summary: Five women reflect on what Jack Sparrow left behind, with laughter and regret, with gratitude and dislike...
Helen had harboured no romantic illusions about pirates as a child. She knew that they were thieves and murderers, just like highwaymen, and the Hampshire village where she grew up had too much experience with highway robbery to have any foolish notions about the romance of brigandry. The village lay on one of the most dangerous roads in England. Almost every day a traveller would stagger in having been set upon and robbed, and it was not uncommon for bodies to be found by the wayside. Helen knew not to walk far from the village alone. When, at fifteen, her cousin secured her a place in the city as maid to a Mrs Bettesworth and she had to travel to London by stagecoach, she fully expected the coach to be held up. But the journey passed without incident. So did the sea-crossing a few years later when the Bettesworths moved to Jamaica to keep a closer eye on their plantation. (Or so they said. The servants knew very well that it was because Mr Bettesworth could no longer fend off his creditors.) Helen’s qualms about sailing through pirate-infested waters proved unfounded; at least, their ship was not attacked.
She did not see a pirate, even during the raid on Port Royal, until the hanging that followed it. Usually she did not attend the executions, but Kitty the scullery maid had a fancy to see one of the condemned – Jack Sparrow – and wanted someone to go with her.
The hanging did not take place. Instead Captain Sparrow escaped with some help from the blacksmith. They fled out onto the parapet, and Will Turner came back with the news of the pirate’s escape to his ship, and of his own engagement to Miss Swann. "Damn it," Kitty said. "She could have had the commodore – why did she have to take the one we had a chance of getting?" Helen barely heard her. She walked home in a daze, her mind overflowing with Captain Jack Sparrow, how he’d looked when he’d laughed, what a loss it would have been if he’d died, how relieved she had been when he got away.
Was that all it took, then, to overcome years of righteous condemnation of piracy and all its practitioners; fine eyes and finer thighs?
Apparently.
---
Two years later she was in the garden gathering roses for Mrs Bettesworth. It was a beautiful, still summer’s day and she was taking her time, sitting on the grass beside the rose bush and checking that each flower was perfect before cutting it. There was little noise around her. Mrs Bettesworth was in the garden with some friends, but they were some way off and she could hardly hear the murmur of their voices.
With no breeze she heard the rustle of leaves quite clearly. There was a thud and a jangle, as if someone had jumped down from the vine-covered garden wall. Helen poked her head out from behind the bush to see.
She gasped. He, in all his glorious shabby splendour, was there, as suddenly and completely as if he had materialised out of thin air like a genie.
Hearing her gasp, he spun towards her, pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her head.
Genies, they said, were capricious creatures. She took another breath, one that sounded like a whimper.
"Quiet," the apparition warned. "I don’t want to shoot you, but if you start screaming murder or fire or whatever else takes your fancy, I’ll have nothing to lose. Savvy?"
She jiggled her head up and down.
"Then you can just walk over there – not towards the house, the other way – I’ll be on my way, and if the marines should happen to come by, you haven’t seen me." He gestured her away with the pistol.
She slowly started to rise to her feet. The wavering of the weapon, indicating she was no longer in immediate danger of being shot, made her stomach heave with relief, and restored some of her fascination with the man before her. This was Captain Jack Sparrow! For two years she had assiduously followed his exploits. She had never quite worked up the nerve to ask Mr Turner how his pirate friend was, but she had surreptitiously read Mr Bettesworth’s newspapers when she was supposed to be pressing his shirts, and had been rewarded by the discovery of articles about the plunderings of the Black Pearl and her captain, ‘the notorious Villain, Jack Sparrow.’ Well, he hadn’t been so villainous as to shoot her, and he was there in the flesh, just as she’d spent the past two years wishing him to be …
"Captain Sparrow," she whispered, her voice an absurd squeak.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
"You’re Captain Jack Sparrow!"
"Aye. I know. Do you want me to stamp my feet and disappear into a crack in the earth never to be seen again, just because you know me name?"
"I was there that day they tried to hang you! I saw Mr Turner rescue you! I – was so glad when you escaped."
His expression softened at the outpouring of approval. "Mr Turner," he said, lowering the pistol, "assisted me on my way. Now, you have me at a disadvantage, miss, since you know my name and I haven’t had the pleasure … ?"
"Helen Godwin – " She would have said more, only they both became aware of the marines shouting in the street.
"They’re looking for me," he said. "Delighted to have made your acquaintance, Miss Godwin; I must be off." He tucked the pistol into his sash and turned to go.
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You can’t go that way! The mistress is entertaining guests – they’ll see you. And they will scream blue murder and bring the marines in."
"What’s the best way out of here, then?"
"Through the house. There’ll be nobody about." She paused to relish the moment. This was superb good luck; her life had intersected with her idol’s, and now she was about to become a footnote – or more, please more – in the Legend of Captain Jack Sparrow. The Lay of Jack and Helen. Or something like that. "I’ll show you the way." Without further ado she took his left hand in hers, entwined her right arm around his elbow, and propelled him towards the house. Delightfully, he didn’t resist, though his dark eyes did swivel from side to side checking for potential traps. Helen noticed that because, instead of watching for the danger of discovery, she was staring at him. Gazing. Feasting her eyes. He didn’t mind the scrutiny.
He looked much the same as he had two years ago. That had been her initial impression. But then she looked again and thought no, he was quite different, yet she couldn’t say how. After some protracted staring, and clutching his arm, through which she could feel the rise and fall of his rolling gait (dear God), she decided that he was like the sea: shimmering, undulating, always the same, never the same, with a sparkle that surfaced in one place only to vanish and reappear somewhere else. (Was that sensation in the pit of her stomach seasickness?) Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Fleetingly Helen wondered if she had taken leave of her senses and was tiptoeing through the Bettesworths’ house with her arms full of roses rather than pirate. She dismissed the idea. He certainly smelled real. In fact anything less like the scent of a rose then his odour could scarcely be imagined. Sweat, smoke, and stale alcohol invaded her nostrils; and his hair looked crusty with salt. Pity there was no chance of giving him a bath.
It was an even greater pity that, having to be quiet to avoid attracting attention, she could not talk to him. Obviously Jack, being a veteran of subterfuge, understood that too, as all he’d said to her was "This is very kind of you." There had been a twinkle in his eye as he’d said it that almost made up for the lack of conversation since.
Unable to ask about his adventures, she simply stared. Was there any physical difference? Though she hadn’t had a good look at his hands two years ago, she thought he now wore more rings. He was wearing a coat and hat that he hadn’t had at the hanging. Neither looked new; they were both so well-worn as to be of indeterminate colour, and the coat was somewhat threadbare.
And yet, she mused as they reached the entrance hall, he did not look out of place in this house with its trappings of Port Royal high society. His portrait could sit easily enough on these walls alongside the likenesses of the lords and ladies the Bettesworths knew. With a haircut and a shave he could even pass for a noble. He had an aristocratic nose. Was there such a thing as pirate nobility?
Her shoes and his boots were thudding loudly on the tiled floor, the rustle of her skirts was suddenly far too noisy, and Jack – there was no denying it - jangled. Beads, belts, sword. What a racket. To their right, Helen could hear the housekeeper talking to two of the maids in the dining room. She prayed briefly, fervently, that she and her guest would not be seen, and drew back the bolts on the front door and unlocked it. Almost there –
"Helen? What are you doing?" A woman’s voice. Not the housekeeper’s. The mistress’s. She stood at the end of the hall flanked by two other plantation owners, looking most concerned by this incursion into her home by a man who, for all his noble qualities, was clearly not one of her friends. For the second time that day Helen was rooted to the spot. How could she explain having escorted a wanted criminal through her employers’ home past all their valuables – even though he hadn’t stolen anything – she would lose her situation and what would she do out here thousands of miles from her family?
Jack – she might have known – had a better idea. No explanations. He made them a kind of half-bow, said something about hospitality and gratitude. Helen was thrilled to the core when he added, "And you won’t mind such an illustrious personage as myself making use of your maid. I’ve always wanted a geisha." He seized her hand. Helen found herself being pulled roughly, energetically, out of the door. Once again she couldn’t believe her luck
Out in the street they found the marines were almost upon them. "Which way inland out of the city?" Jack demanded.
"You’re not going to the docks?"
"That man’s abducting my maid!" Mrs Bettesworth screeched from her front door.
"Right!" Helen said quickly.
They sprinted down the street. Pedestrians jumped aside for the marines, clearing a path for the fugitives. The military’s shouts became angrier.
"This way!" They made a sharp left onto a narrower thoroughfare, from where Helen guided them into a series of alleyways.
"Why aren’t you going to the docks?" she asked again, panting.
"My ship is on the other side of the island – Saint Ann’s Bay."
"That – must be – thirty miles!" Too far. She’d be in no fit state to be a geisha, if that was anything like she thought it was, by the time they got there. Already she was lagging behind Jack and it was only his firm, warm grip on her hand that was making her keep up with him, simply by pulling her along. Their pursuers were still on their trail. Helen’s detour through the back streets had not put them off, for they were just as familiar with Port Royal as she was, and they remained close behind their prey.
Helen and Jack took another right turn and for the moment seemed to have left the marines behind. Ahead of them lay a wide street on the outskirts of the city. From there it was easy to get to the road inland.
A carriage stopped across the entrance of the alley, blocking their path. It was an enormous vehicle drawn by four horses.
Jack slowed down. He looked for a way around, or over, or under, but there was none, at least none that Helen could see. She was just thinking that perhaps he could hijack it when the carriage’s door was flung open. The woman who looked out was Mrs Turner, Miss Swann as was. She appeared to be quite recovered from her confinement. Behind her was her husband. Helen finally understood what she had not previously thought to wonder about, the reason for Jack’s being in Port Royal; he was there to visit his friends and their newborn baby. So the gossips were right – the governor’s daughter and son-in-law really were in communication with pirates.
"Jack! Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!" As she spoke, Mrs Turner drew him towards their conveyance, away from Helen.
What are you doing – you can’t leave me! "Jack – wait –"
He came back, took her in his arms, and gave her the disappointment of her life. "Oh, my dear. I wish I could take you with me. Honestly. But life aboard a ship is not for a lady such as yourself."
"But - !"
"The Black Pearl brooks no rival, darling. I’m sorry." The expression in his dark eyes communicated true regret. Helen almost believed him to be sincere.
He must have seen her doubts, because he leaned down and kissed her warmly. His moustache brushed her face; his soft mouth made her giddy and languorous all at once. If it wasn’t quite the manner of ending she had hoped for, then it was satisfactorily romantic.
She became aware of something hard in his pocket.
Closer inspection revealed that it actually was something hard residing in his pocket. Jack sheepishly proffered a candlestand that Helen recognised as part of an expensive set belonging to the Bettesworths. "Here. Say you retrieved it from me, or I gave it to you in tribute to your fair face."
"How did you –"
"Hurry up, Jack!" That was Mr Turner. Mrs Turner, standing with her hands on her hips, looked equally impatient, and Helen was brought abruptly back to the danger of their situation.
"I really must take my leave," Jack said, backing away. He followed Mrs Turner into the carriage.
"Goodbye," Helen whispered.
He doffed his hat to her. The carriage sped away. She watched them go until voices shouting her name reached her ears. She turned to see some marines, accompanied by a few members of the Bettesworth household, running towards her. Their manner suggested concerned for a distressed damsel rather than her imminent arrest. She was safe from repercussions, then.
She made no move towards them, just hugged her prize and watched them approach. These marines and footmen would not understand, but, once she was back among her friends, what a tale she would have to tell.
---
"Old friend?" Elizabeth asked archly as the carriage borrowed from her father bore them along the Windward Road.
"Quite a recent acquaintance, actually, but a very pleasant young lady. Where’s the sprog?"
"He’s at home with his nurse," Will said. "Did I just see you giving something back?"
"What, the candlestand? Didn’t you notice it was imitation? I confess I couldn’t tell at first glance, but once I’d picked it up I could hardly put it down again. No doubt a high-falutin’ family like that call it a Parisian guéridon, but it was a fake made here in Jamaica. Cross my heart. No one who knew what he was about would give a good price for it, and no one else would buy it at all. The guéridon’s a bit out of fashion these days, innit?"
"If you say so," said Will.
"Now these," Jack continued, pulling out a handful of silver, "are genuine. I can’t imagine why people leave their best cutlery and sugar-tongs and what-have-you lying around like that."
"Perhaps they don’t expect a pirate to come along and help himself to it," Elizabeth said, but as Jack had expected, she offered no more disapproval than that. "Who was that girl, really?"
"As I said - a pleasant young lady, who provided navigating assistance … and who has impeccable taste." She had been helpful in facilitating his escape…. He looked back, almost expecting to still see her standing there. The city was out of sight.
He didn’t look back again.