The Christmas Guest (2/4)

[dwgm]

Chapter 2: Unexpected

 

He wasn’t getting old, he was getting ill.

A day into the voyage to Port Royal, Jack woke in the tiny passenger cabin of the merchant ship with a decidedly sore throat. He lay in the narrow cot, staring into the dim light, snuffling, and swallowing rather convulsively, hoping that feeling would go away, that he was mistaken. Good God. How many years had it been since he’d been taken with a septic throat? And to be stricken at this present! Well, ‘twas too late to worry about it now. They’d be in Port Royal in a couple of days. If he was still feeling ill, he’d just stay on the ship and have the little gifts sent up to the Turner’s by messenger. But surely he’d feel better by then!

When they reached their destination, two days hence, it seemed his wish had been granted. It had been a dreadful voyage, for the rain had continued steady, and the seas were consequently choppy and gray. He’d seldom felt less inclined to rouse himself to go up on deck, though his cabin was windowless and alternately hot and stuffy, or cold and drafty, depending on the fickle winds—not at all what he was accustomed to! Getting soft already, living in the Great Cabin of the Pearl for the last year.  The thought did nothing to cheer him, and the sight of Port Royal wrapped in low clouds and drizzle, a few lights gleaming from windows of establishments along the waterfront didn’t really help. Still, his sore throat had eased, and though he was strangely weary, and his head ached, he thought he could at least go present his gifts, and find a clean room at one of the better inns before reboarding the merchant ship for the voyage back to Tortuga.

There were few residents about in this weather, and these minded their own business. The town was too active a port to make the presence of one cloak-muffled stranger of much interest. Jack kept his head down, and made his way along side streets to where Turner’s Smithy lay. The change in name had been financed by his wedding gift to Will and Elizabeth, a small chest of gold, enough to buy out Mr. Brown. Jack remembered the route quite easily—seemed like just yesterday he’d been running hell for leather into the town to hide from Norrington and his little marines, hampered by those bloody inconvenient manacles. How he hated being chained! Fortunately, Norrington had seen fit to remove them before chucking him in gaol, and that was the last time he’d worn them, surprisingly. Though there’d been plenty of opportunity later to be “clapped in irons”, Norrington had refrained, and even at the hanging had only had Jack’s wrists tied with rope, and in front of him at that. Jack frowned: had the man been hoping his prisoner would escape? It was a new thought, and a rather intriguing one.

But Turner’s Smithy was locked. Closed for Christmas, the sign read, with a little drawing of holly leaves in the corner. Jack smiled, thinking this was likely Elizabeth’s handiwork.

Very well, then. He’d have to go on up the hill to the Governor’s estate, where Jack knew the Turners had been given the large and well-appointed guesthouse for their use.

He’d been to the estate on the day of the wedding, the reception having been held in the gardens. That day had seen perfect weather, sunny with a hint of a cooling breeze, and moreover there had been carriages hired to transport the guests from the church to the site of the party. This day was vastly different. The rain, a drizzle when he’d stepped off the cutter, had increased steadily, and now drummed unpleasantly on his hat and shoulders, making the long trudge up the steep road a very uncomfortable one. Obviously he was still not himself: he usually liked storms, and rain, and was fairly immune to cool weather as well, at least as cool as it got in the Caribbean. Now, however, the road seemed endless. His headache had returned, along with other odd twinges, and he felt dead tired, and was occasionally taken with an inner chill. Not good signs. He considered turning back several times, but then moved on, thinking it was just a little farther, and he’d already come all this way…

Finally the gates came in sight, and no guard was braving the elements to hinder him. He made a sharp right as he entered, and struck out for the back of the property, where the little guesthouse was located, near a cliff that overlooked the sea. It was nice, walking under the trees: they blocked the rain quite effectively with their broad evergreen leaves. But, arriving at the guesthouse, he saw he was doomed to disappointment: there was some kind of construction going on, affecting both the little house and the yard around it, and, though no one was working at the moment, it was obvious that no one was living there at present. Which meant Elizabeth and Will were likely staying with the Governor.

Jack chewed his lip a bit, debating on whether to chance a meeting with Swann. Elizabeth had written that she’d revealed Jack’s presence at the wedding to her father and that he had not been much disturbed to think their “unusual friend” had been there for the festivities. Jack only half believed this seeming complaisance: the man had been ready to string him up after he’d rescued Elizabeth! Sentenced to death for a mangled corset: bloody ridiculous. Of course, it was also the Governor’s odd logic that had swayed Norrington in the end, so apparently he’d had a change of heart, to some degree.

A sudden increase in the rain decided the matter.

It was late afternoon now, and as Jack emerged from the trees and walked across the lawn to the mansion he could see that there was light coming from a wide bank of windows. Cautiously he sidled up and peeked in, and then for a long second was frozen, staring at the scene.

It was the dining room. There was a delicious-looking dinner laid out, and crystal and silver winked against fine linen in the light from a tidy little fire that was burning in a tiled hearth. There were Elizabeth and Will, smiling and beautiful, both, and the Governor, elaborately clad and sporting a fine new wig, and one other diner, an attractive middle-aged woman with twinkling eyes. There was a neatly dressed footman serving, and an old butler pouring out wine.

Warmth. And food. And wine. And pleasant company. A sudden longing to be a part of that gripped him, and, simultaneously, an even more overwhelming feeling that he’d made a horrible mistake. He wasn’t of that world, not any longer, not that he’d ever been, really…

And then, disaster: Elizabeth glanced up, caught sight of him and was seen to give a start; the middle-aged lady noted it, followed Elizabeth’s gaze and emitted an audible shriek.

The sound stung Jack, rousing him abruptly from his stupor, and he backed away. Unfortunately, some careless gardener had failed to take into account the need for random voyeurs to make clean exits. Jack tripped on the watering can with a noisy bang, gave a hoarse yelp of dismay, and fell on his arse with far less than his usual grace. He struggled to rise, but slipped and slid on the rain-soaked turf a couple of times, and then it was too late. As he finally got to his feet they were coming out of the house, and Will was coming toward him, a bared sword in hand.

The lad didn’t raise it, however. “Jack?”

“Aye,” he said. No choice now but to face the music and hope for the best. He tipped back his hat a bit and gave an ingratiating smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

An expression of joy flitted over Will’s face, followed by a concerned frown. “What are you doing out here? Are you all right?”

Apparently he didn’t look all right. Jack cleared his throat. “Just came to give you and Elizabeth your Christmas gifts. But you wasn’t home, eh?” He nodded in the direction of the guesthouse, gave a self-deprecating chuckle, followed by a slight cough.

A look of surprise and sympathy chased the joy off Will’s face, and Jack winced: another thing he hated was being genuinely pathetic, which, he had to admit, was indisputably the case at the moment.

But Will grabbed his arm, saying, “Come in out of this rain! The cottage was flooded—that’s why we’re here for a few days.” Will pulled Jack along, toward the little group waiting under the shelter of the portico. “Elizabeth! Sir! It’s Jack!”

Elizabeth had known it, and was smiling broadly, and the unknown lady looked surprised but extremely pleased as well: apparently legend had preceded him in that quarter. Swann, however, said sharply, “Jack Sparrow! What the devil?”

“Captain Jack Sparrow!” Elizabeth corrected, and grabbed Jack’s other arm as Will pulled him up the steps. Elizabeth said to the older lady, “Mrs. Hathaway! I must beg you to be circumspect: I know you are aware of our dealings with Jack and I assure you we count him a friend!”

“You’ve no need to worry on my account, dear, but you’d best speak with your servants,” Mrs. Hathaway said with brisk glee, as they hustled Jack into the house.

Elizabeth and Will let go of his arms and Jack stood dripping and blinking in the warmth and light of the foyer. Swann shut the door, then joined the others, eyeing him with some disapproval.

Elizabeth said, “Where’s the Black Pearl, Jack? Is everything all right?”

“Bein’ careened, back on Tortuga,” Jack managed. Oh, Lord. He could feel a sneeze coming on. He groped beneath the sodden cloak for a pocket handkerchief.

“He’s brought us Christmas gifts!” Will said to Elizabeth.

“Gifts! Oh, Jack! You’ve come for Christmas?”

“Aye,” said Jack, found the lace-edged wipe in the nick of time, gasped a bit and sneezed into it violently. Then he looked up at their startled faces with rheumy eyes. “Only I’ve caught a cold, so I shouldn’t…”

“Oh, Jack!” Elizabeth said again, her voice quivering with laughter as well as genuine sympathy.

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Hathaway, kindly. “But you will catch your death, standing here in those wet clothes!”

“Yes,” exclaimed Elizabeth.  “Father, you will not mind having one more guest for Christmas!”

Swann gobbled a bit. “A…this pirate? Elizabeth!”

“Father, he saved my life!”

“Well, yes, but… ” The Governor’s voice trailed off as he looked Jack up and down, and suddenly he chuckled. “Good God, Sparrow! You do look a wretched specimen! Worse even than on that dock all those months ago. Poor fellow. Beck! Get the man’s cloak!”

The latter was directed at Swann’s elderly butler, who gaped briefly, but then complied. He was assisted in the endeavor by Will, and by Elizabeth, who removed Jack’s hat, passing it tenderly to one of the maids. “Be careful of that, Estrella! Put it in the Rose Suite.”

“The Rose Suite? Yes, ma’am,” said Estrella, and her eyes laughed. She looked Jack over with frank interest, and said to Elizabeth, “Shall I prepare the room. Light a fire and such?”

“Good God, Jack, you’re soaked!” exclaimed Will as they got the sodden cloak off.

“The cloak’s the worst of it,” Jack said.  But an unexpected shudder of ague gave the lie to this statement and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed militantly. 

“It’s not the worst of it!” Elizabeth said, a little severely, “You can’t sit down to dinner like that: you will catch your death, just as Mrs. Hathaway said! Estrella! Yes, run up and light the fire, and lay out towels. Charles! Get you to the kitchen. I want water boiled with all speed, and a hot bath brought up to the Rose Suite, and hot tea—or no, would you prefer mulled wine, Jack? Yes.  And a plate of dinner.  And some rum!”

Jack was both dismayed and delighted at all this fuss, but he was not allowed to stand amazed for long. Elizabeth and Will each took an arm and led him up the staircase, followed by Mrs. Hathaway, who clucked about the benefits of herb tea over mulled wine.

“And is he not without baggage, my dear?” Mrs. Hathaway said, sadly, adding in an arch tone, “What will he do for a nightshirt?”

But Elizabeth said, briskly, “Very true! Where are your things, Jack? Shall I send to have them fetched?”

“Don’t have much,” said Jack, “And no nightshirt at all: haven’t worn one in years! But this shirt’ll dry… “

“Oh, no!” said Elizabeth. “The weather is uncommonly cool, and you are ill! You must have a nightshirt. Father can very well spare one of his, and his second best dressing gown as well, the one he never wears. Don’t worry: there can be no difficulty.  I will take care of everything!”

She did take care of everything, too. Almost before he knew it, he’d been stripped and set to soak in a hot bath, steam curling from water that had been slightly scented with roses, an additional kettle of it simmering on a hob by the hearth. There was also a half-tankard of mulled wine in his hand (the other half already radiating muzzy delight inside him), and a thankful prayer on his lips for darling Lizzie and her managing, imperious, demanding self.

Her wicked sense of humor, briefly glimpsed during their sojourn on The Island, had spiced this practiced hospitality. He’d exchanged a Look with her when they’d entered the Rose Suite, daintily decorated in shades of delicate pink and green, bedclothes and curtains fearfully and wonderfully embroidered. “Mrs. Hathaway prefers the view in the Blue Room,” Elizabeth had said, her voice full of suppressed glee. The tub that was presently lugged in by two burley underfootmen and placed before the cheerful fire continued the theme, its porcelain-lined interior painted with fat cherubs, ribbons and more roses. It seemed to delight her, this contrast of pale femininity and swarthy pirate, and he certainly had no real objection to it himself: he thought the decor rather soothing, actually, and in any case he’d learned long since that gift horses were not to be looked in the mouth.

Elizabeth and Mrs. Hathaway had taken themselves off while Will helped him strip the damp clothes from his aching and chilled body, but Elizabeth had returned in a few minutes, the nightshirt and the ‘second-best’ dressing gown over her arm, and Swann’s valet in tow. By then, Jack’s nakedness had been wrapped in a warm quilt, but as she introduced him to “…Peters, who has been with my Father forever!” he saw that she was coloring slightly, even so: obviously not quite the worldly matron she liked one to think her. He gave her a teasing look, letting the quilt slide off one shoulder, just a little.

Elizabeth colored even more, but she said evenly, “We shall leave you to Peters’ mercies while we finish our own dinner, but we shall bring you a tray later, when you are warm and dry.”

Peters had drawn the drapes against the waning, gray light and the rain dripping down the windowpanes while the filling of the bathtub was completed, then helped Jack in, presented him with the tankard of mulled wine that Estrella had brought up on a silver tray, and let him soak in peace, just this side of Heaven.

Jack managed to keep his eyes open until the wine was nearly gone, then was vaguely aware of Peters removing the tankard from his slackening hold, and murmured thanks. He dozed after that, while the water baked the ache and chill from his bones. Peters hovered discreetly, carefully adding more hot water near the foot of the tub as needed.

Finally Jack caught himself starting to snore and jerked awake.

“Sir,” said Peters, “shall I assist you? I believe Mrs. Turner is intending to bring you that tray of dinner soon.”

“Is she? P’rhaps I’d better get out, then. Such bad form to put one’s hostess to the blush.”

“Indeed, sir,” agreed Peters, blandly, though his eyes smiled.

Jack felt almost boneless after the long bath, and was very glad of Peters’ help. Standing before the fire on a towel placed on the rose-patterned Turkey carpet, Peters swiftly used more of the thick, soft towels to dry him, and then efficiently helped him into the big nightshirt. Jack noted the man’s surreptitious interest as these tasks were accomplished.

“Not quite what you’re used to, waitin’ on a pirate?” Jack suggested as Peters fastened the last of the ties for him.

Peters said, “You’ve certainly evidence of an adventurous life about you, Captain. But indeed, I have been in service for many years, and am quite accustomed to waiting on gentlemen.”

“Gentleman!” Jack protested, as a matter of course, but then encountered a pointed look from the valet. “Oh, well. Just don’t spread it about, will you? I’ve a reputation to maintain, y’know.”

“I won’t say a word,” Peters assured him.

No, he wouldn’t have to, would he? Just the fact that Swann’s high-toned valet had no objection to waiting on Jack would tell the tale.

Lizzie and Will brought him the promised tray soon after Peters had tucked him into the enormous bed, but he was already half asleep when they arrived. He made an effort to rouse himself, and they helped him to sit up, banking pillows behind him. Elizabeth took great delight in coaxing him to eat some of the delicious food, though he wasn’t really very hungry, and between bites, he answered some of their many questions about the Pearl’s recent activities. But it was difficult to stay awake when one was so warm and comfortable. His eyes kept drooping, and when he finally nodded off in the middle of a story they judged it time to take their leave.

After they’d settled him again, Elizabeth placed a cool hand on his forehead, and frowned. “You are very warm.”

“’Twas the bath and the fire. Even me hair’s dry, mostly. Thank you, Elizabeth.”

She shook her head, looking fond. “We’ll check on you later, and there is a bell on the nightstand—Peters or one of the maids will come if you’ve need. Good night, Jack! Have pleasant dreams.”

Pleasant dreams. Could hardly be pleasanter than the waking now, could they?



On to Chapter Three...

~.~

Comments

[celandineb.livejournal.com]

I love the image of Jack in a tub painted with cherubs and pink roses... and evidently your Jack bears a certain kinship to the Eton-attending Cap'n Hook, it would seem.

Looking forward to the next installment!

[geekmama.livejournal.com]

Jack is nothing if not adaptable. *G* As for Eton, well, you never know: he's something of a mystery, isn't he?

Glad you're enjoying it!