Fic: 'Harry & the Pirate VI: Blood and Treasure' (12/20)

[dwgm]

Chapter Twelve: Father Aloysius

Jack and his darling, wicked spouse breakfasted alone in the smaller dining room, which overlooked an informal but well-kept rose garden, for it wanted only an hour to noon when they sat down and the rest of their family and friends had long since dispersed to explore the estate or the surrounding countryside. A lengthy nap had been required by the pair to recover from exertions that were not unaccustomed but, in recent times, had rarely been quite so prolonged and exhausting. Even now, when they’d both been bathed and thoroughly groomed, and the somewhat oil-stained sheets had been stripped from the bed and taken away to be washed and hung to dry in the sun, Harry had a dreamy, cat-who’d-got-the-cream look about her, and Jack found himself grinning and chuckling at odd moments. He did so as he buttered his third slice of toast, and again, as he helped himself to another portion of ham.

Harry, pouring them each another cup of coffee, said, “What a pleasant room this is. In fact there is a great deal to be said for the whole house and staff. I find I was sadly misled before our arrival.”

Jack eyed her. “My apologies. Though you weren’t about when I was a lad, so how was I to guess, eh?”

“Very true,” she said, eyeing him right back with a satisfied air.

As she took a sip of her coffee he said in silken tones, “Careful of that smirk, love, you know how I like my revenge,” and to his amusement she choked slightly. He patted her on the back. “There, there, no worries. You’ve the rest of the day to recruit your strength, and there’s still half a vial of that oil left to ease matters.”

“Evil pirate,” she said, when she finally could, but she was laughing now. “How am I to manage for the rest of the day, thinking of such things? Perhaps it’s as well that we go to seek guidance and confess our sins.”

“Confess? Such a collection as we have between us would put the poor old friar in his grave. He’s close to ninety, you know. I’ll be happy if he’s still able to remember anything to the point.”

Jack ordered a carriage to be brought round and he and Harry drove the few miles to the village where resided Father Aloysius Meadows, the priest who was said to have served as co-officiate at the very private marriage ceremony uniting John Wainfleet and Katherine Sparrow in holy wedlock some fifty-seven years before. Cousin Sera’s assertion that the local populace held the good Father in affection and respect, in spite of his being a papist, proved to be accurate, for on entering the village, Jack hailed a passing matron for directions and was not only given them with alacrity but also charged with conveying the woman’s greetings to the priest and his housekeeper, Martha.

They found the cottage without much difficulty, though it was set back from the road, behind a line of trees. Jack secured their single horse, helped Harry down, and gave her his arm as they strolled up the walk to the door. He knocked, but for a long moment no one answered. After they’d glanced a question at one another, Jack was about to knock again when there were shuffling sounds, some fumbling with the lock, and the door opened to reveal the priest himself, ancient and a little bent, but surprisingly bright-eyed for all that.

“Hello?” he said, then squinted at Jack. “Do I know you?”

Jack took off his hat and cleared his throat. “I doubt you’ll remember me, Father, for we only met a few times, long ago. I’m Katherine Sparrow’s son.”

“Jack! So those gentlemen that visited from London a few months ago were correct, you have come home!”

“In a manner of speaking,” Jack admitted with some reluctance. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Henrietta.”

Harry curtsied, and the old man, still squinting, said, “Charming! It is very good to meet you, my dear. But where are my manners? Come in, both of you!”

They did so, and he showed them into the parlor, which doubled as a dining room.

“I would offer you refreshment, but Martha has gone into the village and left me to my own devises—an unusual state of affairs. I like to be alone occasionally, but she worries about me, you know, so it’s a rare occurrence, very rare. Tea would be just the thing, and some of those little cakes she made, unless we’ve eaten them all. My dear,” he said, to Harry hopefully, “you wouldn’t be willing to investigate, and possibly make some tea for us?”

Harry chuckled. “Of course I would! I shall bring tea directly, and cakes, too, if there are any to be had.”

As she bustled off to find the kitchen, Jack said, “I’m sorry we’ve disturbed your solitude.”

“Oh, no, not at all. Your wife is a sweet child, catering to an old man’s wishes. Outrageous to ask her to rummage about in that kitchen, but that’s one of the advantages of growing old: one’s demands might be due to failing wits rather than pure selfishness. One of the few advantages, I must say. Mostly it’s a tedious business, and not for the faint of heart. But sit down, sit down!”

He did so himself, in a well-worn armchair upholstered in faded green brocade. Jack turned out one of the dining room chairs and sat down facing him, but after making himself comfortable, Father Aloysius continued his rambling dialogue.

“How glad I will be if she can find some cakes. Martha would say I must not spoil my dinner by filling up on such things, but am I not master in my own house? But come, enough of my woes. How glad I am to see you again. For of course I remember you, though so many years have passed. You were something of a rascal as I recall, and the joy and grief of your mother – a lovely woman, and so kind. Such a loss to all of us when she died. You were ten, I believe?”

“Twelve,” Jack said.

“Of course. And Wainfleet sent you off directly.” The priest shook his head sadly. “Did you go to sea at so young an age? It must have been very hard.”

Jack shrugged. “I took to it, you might say. I was only out for a year that time. Then Wainfleet recalled me, and had me apprenticed to a cartographer in Bristol. That was worse, though I learned a great deal from the old… er, gentleman. Before I ran off to sea again.”

“And how old were you then?”

“Seventeen—all but a few weeks.”

“And when did you take up piracy?”

“Near as soon as I reached the Caribbean. There were incidents. And circumstances. John Tobias captained the Black Pearl at that time, and he was a marvel.” A smile touched Jack’s lips, remembering. “A good man, though I don’t suppose you’d believe it.”

The priest raised a brow.

Jack went on. “He taught me everything, or as near as makes no difference, and I learned quickly. Made me first, and then, when he passed… when he was killed by that murdering… well...” His voice trailed off.

“He was worthy of such great regard, this Captain Tobias?”

Jack looked up at the old man. “He was. I was twenty-one when he was killed, and they made me captain.”

“Very young to captain a ship.”

“Aye. But I held it for four years, ‘til old Hector Barbossa betrayed me. Left me marooned, and though I managed to escape it was ten years before I got back my Pearl. My wife’s niece, Elizabeth Swann, and Will Turner, the son of an old mate, helped me to do it, with some assistance from various friends. And a year later, when Elizabeth and Will were to marry, Harry – my wife, Henrietta – she came out from England for the wedding.”

“And you fell in love with her.”

Jack nodded, remembering. “It’s a long tale, but in the end her brother, who was governor of Jamaica until just recently, arranged a pardon for all the Pearls, and a Letter of Marque for us, too, and Harry and I were wed. Twenty years we’ve been together now.”

“And children?”

Jack beamed. “Two. Our son, Tom, nineteen, and then we were finally blessed with a girl, Marguerite Elizabeth – Daisy. She’s just turned ten. They’re with us, back at the Hall.”

“What happiness!” the priest exclaimed. “You must bring them to see me one day. How pleased your mother would have been, had she lived.”

“Aye. She’d like Tom and Daisy – Day’s just like her, I think. And my Harry.”

“Your Harry,” said the lady herself, reentering the room carrying a laden tray, “has succeeded in making tea and found the cakes!”

Father Aloysius expressed his delight, and Jack helped him up from his chair so they could all sit down together around the table.

*

“Now,” said the priest, after he’d finished his first cup of tea and consumed several more cakes than Martha would have approved, “to what do I owe this delightful visit? Or perhaps I can guess. You wish to know the story of your mother’s marriage to Wainfleet.”

Jack’s smile quite disappeared. “Aye. I didn’t know until a week ago that they were married.”

“To be a practicing Catholic in this country has been difficult thing for two centuries, my son. In your father’s youth – and mine—things were somewhat easier, but your grandfather, the fourth Baron Wainfleet, was from an older time, and though your father had no objection to your mother’s faith, your grandfather would never have countenanced the marriage. I believed your father had cause to be concerned, and my colleague, the Reverend Woode, who served as co-officiate, agreed. We two, along with your mother’s old servants, were the only witnesses to the marriage, so it was not difficult to keep it secret, even from you, for of course you had not reached an age when your discretion could be relied upon.

When your mother died untimely, we did not at first wonder at your father sending you away. We felt he had your welfare in mind, and that all would be revealed to you when he came into his inheritance, allowing you to return with safety. But it was many years before your grandfather passed, and by then you were known not only to have left England but to have taken up piracy. I am sorry to say that your father, so far from being willing to send you word of the true state of affairs, elected to look about him for a second wife, with the object of producing what he considered at that time to be a worthier heir. I was the only surviving witness to the marriage, and your father informed me that, should I have the temerity to challenge his plan, he would do what lay in his power to silence me. It was a vague threat, but I could not but take him at his word. It could have been so easily accomplished, after all, and would have affected not only myself but every soul in my parish. I felt I had no choice but to leave the matter in God’s hands.

Yet the years went by, your father did not marry again, and you regained your good name. I thought my prayers had been answered, that your father had had a change of heart, and in the end that proved to be the case. But though his actions had been, for the most part, reasonable, I feel he was ashamed to own them after all that had happened. He did come here once, to apologize for his words at our previous meeting so many years before, and he told me that all was to be set aright. I took him at his word, but it was long before he fulfilled that promise. Apparently it was not many months prior to his death when he made arrangements with his solicitors in London, for they came here to speak with me not a fortnight after his passing. I told them the truth, and showed them the parish register with your parents’ signatures and those of the witnesses.”

There was a silence. Then Jack asked, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears, “May I see the register?”

“Of course you may.”

The old priest rose and left the room. Harry put her hand over Jack’s on the table, but though he returned her clasp, he did not look at her or smile.

Presently, Father Aloysius came back with the ancient book and laid it on the table, opening it where it was marked with a ribbon.

Jack’s lips moved as read those names to himself, and he ran his finger over the ink, so long dried on that yellowed page. A prayer, and a caress.

After a long moment, he looked up. “Thank you, Father.”

“God be with you, my son,” the old priest said. “May you serve your people well.” And his rheumy eyes were bright with tears.



Continued in Chapter Thirteen: Settling In

Comments

[torn-eledhwen.livejournal.com]

Sniff. Bless the old priest. What a nice old man.

[geekmama.livejournal.com]

He was a lot of fun to write. *g*