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dwgmUsing up some of those drabble prompts I neglected these past months. Here are another 300 words of An Execrable Business, unbetaed this time, but hopefully OK.
1. Tortuga
2. Happiness
~ An Execrable Business, continued...
She was sufficiently grubby for a street urchin, but the pretty, kittenish face was dead pale under the soot, save for a spot of chagrinned color, and the wide eyes held a look Jack recognized. “S'pose you’re hungry.”
A beat of surprise. Then, “Yes.”
“Don’t try to run.” He let her go, and watched as she straightened and, eyes downcast, rubbed her sore wrists. She bit her lip again. He said quickly, “We’ll go to Whitby House for some victuals and chat. Come along.”
She trudged beside him obediently enough, slogging along in silence through the raucous, muddy streets, his hand on her shoulder or tug at her coat sleeve all that was needed to direct her and remind her who was in charge. It wasn't long before they left the waterfront behind and entered the better part of the town, where the streets were less muddy and the inn lay, trim and welcoming.
At the sight of it, she halted in her tracks. "I can't go in like this."
Jack saw her point. Whitby House was the newest and best hostelry in Tortuga, built by Robert Whitby for his bride Martha, using his prize money from the lucky sack of a Spanish treasure ship. Robert was a less than exemplary husband in some respects, being a sailor and a pirate, and ill-tempered besides. But the construction of Whitby House had done much to reconcile young Martha, scion of innkeepers, to her lot, and she was exceedingly happy and proficient in its management. Jack had to admit that the present condition of his companion was a painful contrast to the inn's neat, white-washed façade, green painted door, and shining tile roof. "Come round the back. We'll clean you up a bit. I happen to know the proprietress. She won't mind."
TBC…
1. Tortuga
2. Happiness
~ An Execrable Business, continued...
She was sufficiently grubby for a street urchin, but the pretty, kittenish face was dead pale under the soot, save for a spot of chagrinned color, and the wide eyes held a look Jack recognized. “S'pose you’re hungry.”
A beat of surprise. Then, “Yes.”
“Don’t try to run.” He let her go, and watched as she straightened and, eyes downcast, rubbed her sore wrists. She bit her lip again. He said quickly, “We’ll go to Whitby House for some victuals and chat. Come along.”
She trudged beside him obediently enough, slogging along in silence through the raucous, muddy streets, his hand on her shoulder or tug at her coat sleeve all that was needed to direct her and remind her who was in charge. It wasn't long before they left the waterfront behind and entered the better part of the town, where the streets were less muddy and the inn lay, trim and welcoming.
At the sight of it, she halted in her tracks. "I can't go in like this."
Jack saw her point. Whitby House was the newest and best hostelry in Tortuga, built by Robert Whitby for his bride Martha, using his prize money from the lucky sack of a Spanish treasure ship. Robert was a less than exemplary husband in some respects, being a sailor and a pirate, and ill-tempered besides. But the construction of Whitby House had done much to reconcile young Martha, scion of innkeepers, to her lot, and she was exceedingly happy and proficient in its management. Jack had to admit that the present condition of his companion was a painful contrast to the inn's neat, white-washed façade, green painted door, and shining tile roof. "Come round the back. We'll clean you up a bit. I happen to know the proprietress. She won't mind."
TBC…