Chapter III

A Fine Woman

“Hark, news, O envy; thou shalt hear descried
My Julia; who as yet was ne'er envied.”

–“Elegy XIV: Julia”, John Donne

۞۞۞

The exact moment he was certain that his situation could not possibly become any more bizarre than it already was, it saw fit to do just that. The queer truth of the matter was that he had heard of her. It had been several years, but nonetheless, the name was distantly familiar.

If he recalled correctly, Lord Philip Hainsworth, Marquess of Salisbury, and his wife had set sail for the Caribbean, the Marquess having just purchased an expansive plantation in Port Royal. They hadn’t been very far from their destination when pirates had attacked their ship, the Merriweather. When the vessel had finally limped into Port Royal’s harbor, he and his marines had found that nearly all of the noble couple’s possessions had been pillaged; that, due to the shock of the event, the Marquess was dead of heart failure; and that the Marchioness had disappeared entirely. His immediate assumption was that the pirates had taken her as well, but the crew of the Merriweather had assured him that that was not the case. With their ship badly in need of repair, the sailors had had no choice but to dock in the next port of call—Tortuga. It was at this time that the now-widowed Marchioness had slipped off of the ship with word to no one, save for her maid, and had allowed herself to be taken by the town.

Quite literally, it seemed, if she and his strumpet were indeed one in the same. But how could that be? Despite the crew’s account, he had insisted upon searching for the missing woman, thinking that perhaps, in her grief at her husband’s passing, she had not been herself, had not been thinking clearly. He had kept up the search for as long as possible, but eventually he had had to bring it to a halt. It had been difficult to give the order to stop looking, but logic, as always, had insisted and finally he had had to admit the truth: They were not going to find her. It mattered not that he had never met the woman; he had still felt the same way that he always did whenever there were casualties in battle or if one of the citizens of Port Royal was caught in the crossfire. That sense of deep remorse, of anger at his inability to protect. No, he had never made Lady Hainsworth’s acquaintance, yet he somehow he had known that he had failed her.

But what if he had met her? An absurd thought—one that he immediately dashed.

But still…had stranger things not happened?

Yes. But no, this could not possibly be. Though he had never met her—he was certain that he hadn’t—he imagined that the missing Marchioness would have been a proper, educated, soft-spoken lady of society. Not Jou-Jou, this harpy who was uncouth, disrespectful, garrulous…

Yet as soon as he thought this, he knew it to be untrue—or, at least, an unfair exaggeration of her character. The woman loathed her life of prostitution and only pursued it because the alternatives were quite limited. If a woman lacked the skills necessary to find suitable work, then her only options were to marry well (an unlikely prospect on Tortuga), sell herself, or starve. Once he had come to know Jou-Jou better, he had realized that, while her choice of words may have often been poor, her actual remarks weren’t always scandalous. One had to block out what she said and listen to what she meant. In fact (excluding customers as she was always sweet with them), she was only ever rude with a person unless they first treated her rudely. And he could not call her disrespectful, for it was clear that, for reasons he still failed to conceive, she held a rather high opinion of him.

That does not mean that she is of noble blood, you fool. Yet as he thought this, he began to recall everything, all of the strange little quirks that he had attributed to her. Her neatness, her love of finery, her abstinence from drinking, her occasional eloquence… And suddenly, he was struck by a memory, one of the two of them, sitting side by side on a narrow bed in a dreary room at an inn known as the Ring O’Bells.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he had said. “In those moments…I was not myself.”

“Oh, lovey,” she had murmured in a wistful sort of way that he imagined was meant to sound offhanded. And she had met his eyes with sympathy—or was it empathy?—when she had asked, “Whoever is?”

“’Whoever is,’” he echoed dimly, slowly taking in the sight of her, his eyes aglow with new realization. “You once said that to me, and I now wonder if, perhaps, there was a deeper meaning behind those words?”

She shrugged indifferently, either not remembering or pretending not to know what he spoke of.

“While the evidence you’ve presented is substantial,” he admitted, “I find myself unsure of what to think. Forgive me if I do not feel entirely inclined to believeyou.”

“I don’t expect you to, dearest,” she replied, accepting this with ease. “Though, if it’s proof you’re in need of, you could always speak with Cutler.”

“Beckett.”

“Yes. We’re old friends, you see.” She gave a light laugh that was bereft of humor. “Imagine his shock when, in lieu of a prostitute…he discovered that he had employed a missing marchioness—not to mention the woman he once considered for marriage.”

“Marriage?” he exclaimed, pushing himself up to look into her eyes, all the while gaping, openly shocked.

“Ah, yes,” she quietly confirmed. “Perhaps I should explain that as well?”

“I imagine that it couldn’t hurt, no,” he sighed with weary sarcasm as he dropped his head back down, suddenly feeling dizzy and exhausted. Nothing was certain anymore. He no longer knew what to believe, who to trust, or even how to properly conduct himself. It was as if he had become his own tattered naval jacket and was slowly coming apart at the seams, far beyond repair.

Concerned fingers brushed his shoulder and he stiffened, quickly shifting so that he was lying beside her. She drew her hands back sharply, clasping them firmly in her lap, looking somewhat…embarrassed, as if silently scolding herself for not knowing better than to try and touch him. At once he grimaced, ashamed at his own foolish behavior. Had he not learned months ago that not all of her gestures were meant to be taken as invitations? That sexual connotations were not attached to every word she uttered, every move she made?

She was a rather tactile thing, he had once observed, and not all of her touches (at least the ones meant for him) were entirely flirtatious. More friendly, to be honest, even if some of them breached decorum. And she was always careful around him, always sure not to do anything too suggestive, too lewd. She was well acquainted with his sense of propriety and overall respect for women, and she in turn respected this. Once when he had been hideously inebriated, he had even fancied that she even had some small amount of liking for him. Absurd, of course, for she seemed to have little care for anyone, yet it was a comforting thought, however fleeting as it had only lasted a moment before being savagely devoured by bitterness and cynicism.

Still, excluding customers, she was kinder to him than she was to most. Sometimes, whenever she wanted to make it clear that what she had to say was to be taken seriously, she would perhaps place her hand over his and her dark eyes would become so intent that he often become uncomfortable. Sometimes it was as if she had been trying to see right through him; at other times it was like she was asking for something he could not give. Normally, whenever she would come up behind him, she would trail her fingers across his shoulder, quietly announcing her presence. The first time she had done this he had mistakenly thought that it was a pirate who had seen the ruined naval jacket and had wanted to start a fight. Rum acting as fuel to his anger, more than willing to engage in a brawl, he had whirled around, fists raised…and found himself staring directly into her eyes. Gasping, he had dropped his arms at once, tumbling over his words as he hasted to apologize. She had shaken her head, seemingly unaffected though he had seen her tense just moments before, and calmly said, “Honestly, lovey, I know y’don’t like me, but really. I think ye’re overreactin’ a bit.” Her tone had been light, but that hadn’t made him feel any less guilty.

He looked up at her now and mumbled a feeble apology, saying that it wasn’t her fault, truly; that he was being ridiculous. She watched him silently for a moment, face blank, though her eyes were searching. Then, quite abruptly, she said:

“When I was young, my sole purpose was to marry, and to marry well.”

۞۞۞

“It’s a goal that is shared by most young women, I imagine. However, I set my standards considerably higher. I ended a long-standing courtship with a wealthy merchant’s son in order to ensnare the affections of one Cutler Beckett. Unfortunately, at the same time, I had also caught the eye of Philip Hainsworth III, son of the Marquess of Salisbury.” She paused, thoughtfully fingering the lacey sleeve of her gown. “I saw no reason not to court them both.”

“A dangerous game,” he pointed out. “You could have easily garnered a sordid reputation.”

“A fact that I was not unaware of.” She pursed her lips. “Yet both courtships were quite harmless. I held no truly deep feelings of affection for either Cutler or Philip, and I knew that they felt likewise. And my parents approved of what I was doing, of course. I think they saw it as something of an auction, in a way, and they wanted their eldest daughter to go to the highest bidder, especially when they had six other children to consider—three of whom were girls.” She looked at him sharply. “So you see, despite what you may think of me, James, I am not an ignorant woman.”

“I know you’re not,” he protested, looking frustrated. Then, suddenly exasperated, he sighed. “I know…”

“Oh,” she said quietly, feeling embarrassed and quite unsure of what to make of this, only knowing that he wasn’t supposed to see her as having any amount of intelligence. Clearing her throat, she decided it was best if she simply continued.

“Love was never an issue in either courtship. Cutler was only interested in my dowry, and I the fortune he stood to inherit, though we got along extremely well. He was a friend of my two older brothers, you see, and so we knew each other as children.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully.

“We are very much alike, Cutler and I. We both enjoy the finer things in life; we’re both blunt. We are both rather accepting of another person’s beliefs, ethnicity, or style of life—particularly if associating with said person will, in some way, benefit us. And, of course, we both put ourselves before anyone else.”

“At least you are a fraction more trustworthy than he is,” he muttered darkly.

“Am I?” she queried, all the while despairing over the fact that he found her even slightly above suspicion. Surely he knew better than to trust a whore. “I kept my identity from you for four months, James,” she reminded him.

He gave a short, tired laugh and dropped a hand over his eyes. “True… But…did I not do the same to you?” he asked, giving her a questioning look.

“We both have our reasons for not wanting to be found,” she concurred, nodding. “I suppose that I won’t hold it against you, so long as you promise to do the same for me.”

“Agreed. There is so much to resent me for, I doubt that one falsehood will be missed.”

“Darling,” she interrupted, “you may have all the time you like for personal fustigation, but right now I much fancy sparing a moment for my own self-pity, if you don’t mind.”

“Do not speak so lightly,” he warned. “You do not know the sins I have committed—”

“But I am certain that I will come to know them in good time,” she intervened coolly, resisting the impulse to roll her eyes yet at the same time saddened by his obvious hatred for himself.

He gave her a strange look, one that she would call a mixture of pleading and utter bewilderment, but said no more.

“As I was saying,” she began again, “Eventually, Cutler proposed. However, I, knowing that it would forever bother me not to know if I ever had a chance of becoming a marchioness, told him that he would have to await my answer, for I first needed time to contemplate it.”

“I am flattered, darling—immensely so. Unfortunately, I cannot give you an answer just yet. I must have time to think on it.”

“I wouldn’t have imagined that a decision such as this would require much thought, Julia.”

She had smiled. “I’m afraid that I’m like you, Cutler, in that I am a strong believer in thoughts preceding actions.”

“Then, just two days later, Philip asked for my hand.”

“And you accepted,” he guessed.

“Of course,” she replied. “One simply does not turn down a future marquess.” Though she often wondered if she had really intended to reject Cutler when Philip asked for her hand, of if she had merely wanted to see if she could have been a marchioness. She would never know for certain, however, for when she had informed Philip of Cutler’s offer of marriage, the poor man had all but thrown himself at her feet. Dropping to his knees and clasping her hands tightly in his own, he had looped up at her in askance and begun to beg.

“I cannot explain now. I can only tell you that it is of the direst importance that you marry me. Please, you are the only woman that I trust. Please…Please, Julie…”

It had been such a pitiful display that she hadn’t the heart to say no. Besides, he had been destined to be a marquess—to inherit a fortune, a high position in society. He was intelligent, polite, and kind—not to mention handsome with delicate features, soft gray eyes, a small and pretty mouth, and dark hair. Certainly, she would have been mad to refuse him.

“Cutler took it well,” she went on. “He would have thrown me over, had a wealthier heiress happened to look his way, whether he was engaged to me or not. We both knew this, and so there was never any love lost between us.”

Not that there was any ever love to begin with, she thought with faint relief. Love was a wonderful thing, she imagined, but not necessarily a wise thing to strive for.

“You should consider yourself fortunate,” he remarked.

She merely shrugged, gazing absently out the window at the fierce downpour.

“He married a friend of mine, Lillian Hapshire,” she informed him. “Lady Beckett now, I imagine she’s called. A woman with a much larger dowry than myself, one that has contribute greatly to Cutler’s rise to success in the East India Trading Company.

“In any case, she’s a far better match for him than I was,” she finished airily.

He concentrated on his suddenly very interesting thumbnail, as if unsure as to how he should reply to that. Maybe before he would have responded with a light, sarcastic “More agreeable than you, perhaps?” But not now. Now she put him on edge, for now she was a lady. It was good, however, that he was restraining himself from being too amicable with her. Or so she told herself, at least.

“So Lord Beckett is not aiding you solely because you were his once affianced?” he finally asked.

“No, I rather doubt that that has much to do with it at all,” she admitted. Though being friends with the man certainly doesn’t mar my position. “The fact that I know you is of far more importance to him.”

“So you said.” He fell silent, looking lost in thought, as if debating which issue to address amidst a slew of choices. She waited patiently for him to make his decision, willing to divulge as much information as she felt was necessary. After all, there was no need to tell him more than what he absolutely needed to know for clarity’s sake.

“May I ask why, when your ship—”

“The Merriweather?” she asked.

“Yes. When it docked in Tortuga…why did you not stay aboard? Surely you could have lived in Port Royal and run your plantation, if not entirely by yourself, then with the aid of someone experienced. So why did you choose not to and instead assume a life of squalor and depravity on Tortuga? Were you in shock? Mourning?”

“No,” she cut in smoothly, “I was in debt. Up to my ears in it, in fact.”

The question of ‘how’ was on the tip of his tongue, she could see it, but he was torn between curiosity and the impropriety of inquiring about her monetary woes. Thus, he settled for a mere “Oh” of resigned bewilderment.

The poor luv—she took pity on him: “I have a weakness for…material possessions, you see. I simply…adore…clothing. Furniture. Artwork. Jewelry, shoes—especially shoes.” She smiled, looking down at her feet again. “Philip’s mother had died in childbirth and, only three years after we were married, his father finally left us to be with her. Philip was stricken, of course, and rot with grief, but he was a marquess, now, and suddenly quite wealthy.”

“And you now had your money and your title, and you thrived,” he concluded, though she noticed that there was no accusation in his tone. It was simply…flat.

“We both went a little mad with our spending,” she said, and her tone was sheepish, only slightly defensive. She could see his disgust and that he now thought her a conniving coquette. Understandable. But while she didn’t want him to think too highly of her, she still felt the need to point out the fact that she wasn’t alone in her massive expenditures. Philip had always had an eye (and a frivolous need) for finery; not to mention the fact that he had always held a profound appreciation for her agreement to wed him, or the fact that he had always felt guilty for leading her uninformed into what he knew would be a cold, fruitless marriage. To express his gratitude, assuage his troubled conscience, and satisfy his own material needs, Philip hadn’t been hesitant to give her money—many times, he had even thrown it at her. And she, lonely and unhappy in her marriage, saw no reason not to accept his gifts. Moreover, she agreed, almost wholeheartedly, that he did, indeed, owe it to her. What’s more, lonely and unhappy though she was, she was still a sensible young woman, one who logic informed would be mad to reject any endowments that her husband offered. And even if, to make use of that tired cliché, money could not buy her true happiness, it could at least provide just a little joy, if only for a while. For a brief moment, that dark void inside of her where there should have been love was filled.

So she shopped and Philip purchased, and Philip gave and she accepted. In time, she grew to care for him, as a friend at least. She even thought that she could say that he felt the same for her, though he would never take her to bed and officially make her his wife. The fault was neither hers nor his, though she supposed that she could have blamed him if she had truly wanted to. Philip simply wasn’t attracted to her—at all. And that made it very difficult for him to achieve success in the bedroom. In turn, his lack of interest made her rather unenthusiastic, though she was very good at playing pretend. Still, in the end, it was all for nothing. And the following morning, when she awoke before he did, she would go to town again and return home with three or four new dresses and several new pairs of shoes, and she would feel, at least for a day or so, fulfilled.

“Our debts increased,” she said quietly, “without our noticing. Oh, we saw them in the beginning and made certain that they were paid off, but…it wasn’t terribly long before we were indebted again.

“It was during our eighth year of marriage that Philip realized that our problems were quite severe, and so he decided that the best way to remedy them was to make his father’s fruit plantation in the Caribbean, which had only been a small thing at the time, and transform it into a flourishing business that sold not only bananas and oranges, but also sugar. This would require purchasing more land, more workers, proper equipment, and sugar cane obviously, but the idea was that it would all eventually pay for itself. Provided that the business was a success.

“For some reason, rather than hiring an agent to carry out the task like any sensible person would have done, Philip thought it best if he and I journeyed to the Caribbean to investigate our plantation and see what needed to be done.” She bowed her head and added quietly, “I rather think he simply wanted to escape from the awful rumors about us that were beginning to circulate.

“Then, I imagine you know the rest or can figure it out, at least. Our ship was attacked by pirates who took practically everything of value that we possessed. Philip had always suffered from a weak heart; the excitement of it all was clearly too much of a strain on him. He was dead less than two days later. I realized that not only was I penniless but that I now no longer had even my husband and therefore no means of supporting myself. I was alone. Debt collectors would soon be making demands and I had nothing with which to trade, nothing to satisfy them. So…I left. The Merriweather docked in Tortuga and I simply…left.”

He nodded distantly, staring down at his hands, taking all of this in, and looking—if it was possible—guilty. If he had any fondness for her—or, more likely, if she was right and he really was a ninny who felt responsible for the ill fortunes of anyone he so much as made eye contact with—then, perhaps, she could have understood it if he was upset. But self-condemnation?

“James,” she began to say, but he cut in.

“For what it’s worth,” he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

She gaped at him. “Whatever for?”

“Seven years ago, when your ship was attacked, I was a captain then,” he hastened to explain, his voice painful with unnecessary apologies. “Granted, at that time I had yet to become the scourge of piracy, but regardless I was well on my way.” He blinked rapidly—something that he did a lot when nervous or contrite, she had noticed, and his gaze continuously darted from his hands to her face. “If I had known that those pirates were in the area, or if I had sent one of our ships to meet yours once you had entered into our territory—”

“Then Port Royal would have been one less ship of the fleet if pirates had decided to attack the town,” she informed him matter-of-factly.

He shook his head, as if determined to prove that he was the cause of her tribulations.

“At the very least, I could have combed Tortuga more thoroughly, sent more men into the town, or continued the search for another week—”

“Now, lovey,” she warned, “don’t you dare go blaming yourself for what happened to me. ”

“Very well,” he agreed, “perhaps I shouldn’t take all the credit, but I cannot help but feel responsible. I should have been able to prevent it, or, at least, shortened the amount of time you were forced to spend…there.”

“On Tortuga, working as a prostitute?” Quietly, she finished what he could not bring himself to say. The words hung in the air, as if taunting them with their mere existence which both were unable to deny.

“If I may ask,” he spoke up hesitantly, “without sounding too crude and insensitive, why prostitution? Was there nowhere else to turn? Were there no alternatives in sight?”

“What would I have done, James?” she asked lightly, though the challenge was there, now suspended in mid air with the words ‘Tortuga’ and ‘prostitute.’ “Become a washerwoman? A seamstress? Gone to work in a bakery?” She sniffed indignantly. “Darling, I’m a marchioness—a lady. I know how to dance, sing, play the pianoforte, embroider, mind my manners, smile, and look pretty. All perfectly suitable for a nobleman’s wife, but what of a deceased marquess’s insolvent widow?

“That’s not to say that I didn’t try finding other work first, mind you,” she added bitterly.

“I’ve no use fer any o’that fancy stitchery,” the woman, Mrs. Shelton – graying, callous, straightforward—had warned her when she had come to the tailor’s shop seeking work. The seamstress had taken one look at her stylish (if now slightly dirty) gown and immediately concluded that she was of a much different ilk than herself and her fellow reprobates. Hearing her talk of her noteworthy embroidering abilities only confirmed this. “What I need’s a girl t’tidy up this place.” She had glanced around the cramped, fusty store with dislike. “So unless ye’re good with a mop an’ bucket, y’can take yer airs an’ graces and be gone with you b’cause ye’re of no use t’me.”

But she had implored the woman, insisting that she was capable of such menial tasks when, truly, she knew next to nothing about them. From the start, Mrs. Shelton had known that she would fail; yet she had hired her nonetheless—though she knew that this was hardly because the woman had thought that she at least deserved a chance. No, if anything, the bitter seamstress had simply wanted to amuse herself by watching what was clearly once a hoity-toity, rich girl make a fool of herself as she scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees or tried in vain to clean a window that was too high to reach even with the aid of a stool.

It had been nearly a week of working for Mrs. Shelton when it had all become too much and she had finally succumb to the grief of her husband’s death and the utter hopelessness of her situation. She remembered that she had been bent over cleaning when it had happened. The lacey sleeve of her once beautiful gown had caught on a loose nail in one of the floorboards. So intent on finishing her work, she hadn’t noticed until the harsh, rasping sound of tearing fabric and ripping stitches pierced the air. Gasping, she had stopped at once and sat up straight, ignoring the way her back spiked in pain. The lace—once soft and snowy white, now rough and brown at the edges, reminding her of burnt parchment—hung limply from her elbow in a single strip, swinging feebly back at forth, silently telling her in a flat, listless tone that there was no point in keeping it. It was ruined beyond repair, now; it would be best if she simply tore it off and threw it away.

And for some reason, this thought had made her eyes burn. Unthinking, she had brought the meek scrap of lace to her lips and held it there, her breath tight in her chest, eyes squeezed shut. Suddenly, a torrent of unwanted thoughts burst through the powerful dams of her mind, gushing forth, a relentless surge of despair. She had thought of Philip, her home, her friends, and her family—gone. But mostly she had thought of herself and of what she must have looked like: her face red and shining with sweat; her hair unkempt with frizzy strands of it hanging about her face; her hands cracked and bleeding, turning rough with wear, the finger nails broken and dirty; her joints aching with the slightest movement; her entire being exhausted, starving, neglected. She was turning old before her time, suffering from ailments that her own mother wasn’t afflicted with. She was only twenty-three—therefore, she should not have felt this way. This, none of it, should have been happening to her at all. It made no sense, none…!

She hadn’t cried, thankfully. Tears (at least, her tears) were never meant for others to see; they were a spectacle that the public would forever be denied of. No, instead she had merely sat there, drawing deep breaths, trying to calm herself, knees tucked beneath her, the task of scouring the floor abandoned. The abrasive brush lay at her side, forgotten. Such was the state that Mrs. Shelton had found her in. The older woman had placed her gnarled fingers under her chin and tilted her face upward.

She had been mad to expect sympathy, and yet, for a brief moment, she had. Though seamstress had piled her with an unfair amount of work, paid her less than she should have, allowed her to sleep on an old flour sack in the storeroom, woke her up at ungodly hours of the morning, and even thrown snide remarks her way, none of this had ever really bothered her. Often times, she would deflect the insults with a sharp-yet-polite retort of her own, as was and always had been her nature, yet any hurt that she might have felt was never seen. So now, after seeing her, normally so stoic, in such a pathetic, miserable state, surely the seamstress would have taken pity on her, offered some comfort? No. Instead she found herself toppling sideways, the resounding smack of a blow to the cheek ringing in the air.

“On yer feet, girl.”

It hadn’t really hurt; it was simply the shock of it all that had made her clutch her face and look meekly into the hard, uncaring eyes of her employer and say timidly, in a voice not her own:

“Please…my husband is dead.”

Mrs. Shelton – cruel, unfeeling woman hardened by the harsh, selfish mindset of Tortuga—had only scoffed.

“Isn’t that a coincidence? So’s mine!” Without another word, she had kicked the bucket toward her, causing dirty water to slosh out over the edges and splash onto her lap. “Get back t’work.”

The following morning, when it was still dark out, Mrs. Shelton had roused her from a deep slumber and promptly informed her, while the muzzy sleep haze still fogged her brain, that she was being dismissed. Due to severe incompetence, the woman had said. She had lasted less than a week.

This was just one example. There were several others, ones that she didn’t care to dwell on any more than she did the one with Mrs. Shelton “I did what was necessary to live,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “And eventually, I overcame my humiliation at committing such ignominious acts. Granted, the first three months were the most difficult, but after I’d finally resigned myself to a life of prostitution, I grew impassive. Dignity no longer mattered—in a place where no one possesses such a quality, it is a foolish thing to hold on to. I simply learned…not to care anymore. I think it helped that I was fairly confidant that no one I knew would ever see me like that. And, in the unlikely event that they did, I doubted that they would recognize me. Though, to his credit, Cutler did.” She let out a dry laugh. “If you could have heard his voice as he said, ‘What do we have here? Who is that…bleary-eyed waif of a thing? Surely not Julia Hainsworth, Marchioness of Salisbury?’ And then he asked, ‘Good Lord, how do you manage to withstand those manacles?’”

“Manacles?” exclaimed the man at her side, sounding delightfully outraged. “Surely he didn’t—”

“He did, my darling,” she answered calmly. “One cannot be too lenient when dealing with pirates, or even those who associate themselves with pirates, even me.”

“…What did you reply?” he asked after a moment.

Her lips quirked at the memory.

“I said…‘With style and grace. As always.’”

۞۞۞

Style and grace—two things that Jou-Jou, his tart, the woman he had met on Tortuga, greatly lacked.

Yet there she sat, telling him that she was never want for either, as she had informed Lord Cutler Beckett to whom she was supposedly nearly engaged to, a man who he now knew he thoroughly despised.

The word ‘impossible’ echoed within his mind, yet… He glanced over at her. She raised her eyebrows. He shook his head.

“I think I need a drink…”

“I’ll send for some tea.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” she said, smiling faintly. “But I’m afraid that the East India Trading Company frowns on drunkards. Tea-drinking, however, is highly approved of.” She gazed at him with her brows still arched and he glared in return, despising the fact that she was right.

“You never minded my drinking before,” he pointed out.

“No, but I think you know as well as I do that it would be in very poor taste if you were to report for duty completely inebriated. That’s not to say that you will, of course, only that, if you were to consume any sort of intoxicant now, especially in the condition that you’re currently in—”

“Condition?” he repeated, sounding slightly indignant as the word made him feel as though she saw him as a delicate little child.

“—you would remember,” she continued relentlessly, “that drinking helps to numb the pain of...certain events...and even cause you to forget them for a time. And since that is such an attractive prospect and as I doubt that you would want to be recalling such awful things while trying to rid the seas of piracy…” She shrugged mildly. “…you might be inclined to become a little tipsy.”

Though he knew that after witnessing his behavior on Tortuga she had every right to this worry, nonetheless, he could not help but take slight offence.

“It is true that I have made irrational mistakes in the past,” he began, stymieing memories of the hurricane, “I am not so irresponsible—especially not now.”

“I know,” she said not unkindly. “But why take the risk?”

“Indeed,” he sighed, inexplicably weary again. “Why take it…” He looked at her suddenly, meeting her eyes, seeking, studying. She held his gaze with a steadiness that one so small should not have possessed, and he found himself silently commending her for it.

The moment held, drew out, and then at last released.

“You’re telling the truth,” he said, faintly astounded.

“I am.”

“You’re…a marchioness,” he stated haltingly.

“Dowager marchioness, but, indeed, yes,” she gently reminded him.

“And you’re…” He swallowed hard. “…familiar with Lord Beckett. You are acting as his spy.”

“Yes.”

“But,” he remembered, “you have chosen not to divulge any information—information concerning any duplicitous conduct that I may exhibit—to him.”

“Only because I doubt that you will exhibit any conduct that one might consider duplicitous,” she warned him evenly. “Know that I would not hesitate to further Lord Beckett’s favor of myself by betraying you if I did not think the endeavor a fruitless one.”

Considering her hard-hearted character, her self-serving nature this response should not have come as a surprise to him. And, in a way, it did not. What’s more, it was the fact that he startled himself with the notion that she might not have been entirely sincere in her statement. After all, he admitted, she had shown him such kindness earlier. And if she were so selfish, could she not have simply lied to Lord Beckett, spoken falsehoods about himself?

She is not an idiot, he reminded himself. She must know that that man can detect a lie before he even investigates it. Still…He could not help but remember her reaction when she learned that he was leaving Tortuga—and her. How unsure she had seemed—part of him wanted to call it ‘lost’—and even a bit…sad.

And she kissed you. Don’t forget that.

So she had. And what had that meant? It was a loving gesture, one bestowed by a sister or a dear friend. And though he and the trollop were hardly strangers, regardless, he knew that she wasn’t the type to go about kissing just anybody.

Prostitute, his mind prompted.

It was with this thought that he uttered what must have been his twelfth sigh that day that. He looked around the bedroom, which was at once familiar and uninviting, almost cold (he normally slept at the fort, too exhausted to drag himself home to an empty bed that had always seemed far too large for him). He lifted one hand, then let it drop in a gesture of helplessness before asking the only question that came to mind:

“So what am I to call you now, then?”

‘Julia’ he had thought. She certainly seemed like to type who would insist upon everyone being informal and addressing her by her Christian name, painfully reminding him of Elizabeth, though it was the only similarity between the two women that he could find. She, however, proved him wrong in this assumption.

“Lady Hainsworth,” she said in a strange tone, her lips thinning. “I would prefer it if you would address me as ‘Lady Hainsworth.’”

۞۞۞

Notes

…pirates had attacked their ship, the Merriweather – I’m debating whether or not to have the ship that attacked them turn out to have been the Black Pearl. It might be a bit much, thought I’ve always liked things like that because I think that it helps the OCs to be better connected to the canon characters. Hence, why James has already heard of the Marchioness of Salisbury.

…he had known that he had failed her. – this just seems like a very James thing to do, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s just with my James, but he seems like the type who would blame himself for something he had almost no way of preventing (ex. The hurricane incident—though, you guys already know that I refuse to believe that he sailed through it on purpose). Though, really, as far as the Marchioness goes, he should be feeling somewhat pleased because he did save her from being crushed to death and, on top of that, he’s the reason she’s living the high life once again. But he’s James, so he won’t realize this; he’ll just feel guilty.

“Marriage?” – yes, marriage. Though, actually, they were never even engaged. While I know that this isn’t an entirely original concept, I would like to think that I’m at least doing something new with it. I mean, unless it’s a Beckett/OFC fic, I don’t think I’ve come across any stories in which the girl is actually willing to marry Cutler, let alone ones where she’s only after his money. Plus, I love the idea of Cutler and Julia having known each other. As the Marchioness said, they’re very much alike, and I like the chemistry between the two. It almost makes me want to say that I secretly ship Beckett/Julia (Juliett?)—not that Julia will be flirting with Beckett or he’ll be hitting on her in future scenes, of course. You’ll see what I mean, hopefully. It’s almost like, in a way, they would make a good couple if only they would learn not to put themselves before everyone else. With Julia, of course, this is possible; she’s merely reluctant to do so. With Cutler, however, I rather doubt it unless I was to make him what would be, in my mind, slightly OOC. But, fortunately, since this is a Whorrington and not a Juliett, I don’t have to do that.

“When I was young, my sole purpose was to marry, and to marry well.” – this was written (slightly) in Julia’s defense. While she naturally is something of a selfish, grasping creature, this type of personality was encouraged by her family as well as society as a whole—as was the case with most women at the time. After having spent time on Tortuga, she’s become more self-serving. However, now that she no longer has to worry about food and shelter, she is still selfish, but mainly for James’s sake. She doesn’t like herself very much at the moment, and she thinks that, the less James associates with her, the more he will benefit. So, basically, she’s trying not to act like she cares about him because she cares about him. And what she finds to be particularly awful about her new situation is that, now when she can finally afford to let somebody in, her deal with Beckett greatly hinders this.

“I cannot explain now. …it is of the direst importance that you marry me.” – this is important to remember, but only because it comes up again at a much later date. Thankfully, Julia isn’t harboring a deep, dark secret past like so many Mary-Sues. Really, the only reason she doesn’t tell James this is because she feels that it isn’t necessary, which, as you’ll eventually find out, it isn’t.

“Cutler took it well” – he really did, too. Cutler’s deal with Julia, his attitude toward her, his overall treatment of her—none of it has to do with revenge of any sort. Had she actually hurt him in some way, then I could picture him seeking vengeance. However, since this wasn’t the case, Cutler doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would go to any lengths just to pay somebody back, unless it would gain him money or power, as was the case with Captain Jack. And even then, though it was clear that he still held a grudge, was he really out for revenge?

“He married a friend of mine, Lillian Hapshire” – remember how, in Chapter I, Beckett thought about his wife’s meddling in his affairs and then remembered that “the recent arrival of an old friend from England” would keep her occupied. If it isn’t obvious already, that friend is Julia.

…his father finally left us… Philip was stricken... – if you’ll recall from the very beginning of Chapter II when James is grief-stricken and Julia remembers yet another man in the same position? Yes, she was thinking of her late husband. Of course, it wasn’t safe to point this out at the time as it would undoubtedly cause a lot of confusion.

“I was in debt. Up to my ears in it, in fact.” – perhaps it was because I was reading Sena Jeter Naslund’s Abundance, a Novel of Marie Antoinette at the time I was writing this but, in some ways, I think I may have based a bit of Julia’s character on the doomed queen. Obviously, the main similarity is that they both brought about their own downfalls because of their relentless spending which lead to an enormous amount of debt. And I like to think that their explanation for shopping excessively is similar as well. The reason behind Julia’s need for material things is that she felt greatly unloved because her husband took so long to consummate their marriage. Even when he finally did “do the deed,” so to speak, both were rather unenthusiastic and therefore unable to have a child. Considering the time period, the lack of sex and the lack of a kid upset quite a lot of family members and most people saw Julia as the one to blame, though, being Julia, she knew that it was more Philip’s fault than her own and thus wasn’t too terribly bothered by this. Though she did feel rather lonely and unwanted, which led to superfluous shopping, which led to massive debt. This is, more or less, what happened to Marie Antoinette, though the whole ‘need to fill a void’ concept is merely a theory of mine based purely on how I perceive the queen after having read several books about her. I could be wrong and probably am, but nonetheless, it influenced the creation of Julia.

…a cold, fruitless marriage. – this once again relates back to Philip’s reason for marrying Julia, which, as I said, will be revealed at a later date. Simply know that he wasn’t an abusive husband, or an alcoholic, or a workaholic, or a sissy, or a womanizer. He was a decent guy who thought that he was doing what was best for everybody; his main flaws were simply that he was a little bit selfish, childish, materialistic, and even afraid.

The lace… hung limply from her elbow in a single strip… – this represents Julia, what she once was, and what she had become at that point. She subconsciously sees herself reflected in the ruined bit of lace, which is why it has such an affect on her (and I apologize if she seems a little emo here, but I can’t just have her go from a life of privilege to one of prostitution without making her a little angsty). There was also supposed to be a moment in the Ring O’Bells that focused on the same concept, only with shoes rather than lace, but I refrained from including it because it revealed too much about Julia’s character and also because I felt that it was a bit too mushy for the story. After this chapter, however, I might be able to post it as a one-shot/deleted scene sort of thing.

…she saw him as a delicate little child. – which, if you think about it, he is to a certain extent. He’s just too concerned for others and never thinks to look after himself, silly man.

Prostitute, his mind prompted. – yes, I think of this as being said in the exact same tone as Captain Jack’s “Pirate!” in the first movie. Personally, I would think that ‘prostitute’ would be a better excuse than ‘pirate’, as it covers more deviant behavior. ;)

I would not like to have to take this story down and rewrite it again as I have done with my works in the past. Therefore, I am asking all of my readers to alert me at once if anything is historically inaccurate, anyone is out of character, words are improperly spelled, grammar isn’t up to par, or if anything seems Mary-Sue-ish even in the slightest. Remember kids, praise may be nice and make the author feel good about him or herself, but constructive criticism is more helpful in the long run. Politeness is preferred, though you may be harsh if you like – sometimes a little severity is the only way to get the message across. But also take note that by merely writing “Dear God, you suck big time. You suck. Your characters suck. Your story sucks. My eyes are bleeding from how much it sucks. Don’t write anymore, I beg you” you aren’t helping me anymore than people who say “OMG! U rool i wanna mary u!!!11 this is the new OTP!!!!1one1!” are. So please, help me out, but it if you can. Merci in advance!