Disclaimer: I own none of the original POTC characters, places, plot lines,
etc...I am but
a humble fan. But anything that you don't recognize is mine, bizznitch! Steal it and I'll
go medieval on your sorry asses!!!!! Wow, just kidding. I think that just bumped me up
to a PG_13 rating, lol. Well, this is a first timer in this genre, so cut me some slack, read
and review, and enjoy!
Here's To Freedom
"Oh, Natalie, darling! You look absolutely stunning!" Elizabeth Swan said, patting her little sister's auburn curls and stepping back to admire the work of her abagails. "Thank you, ladies. That will be all."
Natalie Swan watched as the two girls left, waiting in silent dread for her sister's incessant babbling to start up again. Without distractions, the woman of twenty had the ability to go on and on for whole hours without breaking a sweat. It never ceased to amaze, really.
As the door clicked closed, Elizabeth, as expected, continued. "Well, who would have known that all of this loveliness was hiding beneath that rakish exterior of yours? Why young Clark Eaton just might fall through the floor at the sight of you, Nattie!"
At the mere mention of his name, Natalie rolled her eyes skyward in silent prayer for mercy. The man was a complete lout! And he called himself a poet, for Jude's sake! He never said anything of substance, just spouted superfluous descriptions of her "timeless" beauty that she knew he did not mean.
If he'd had his way he would be in Will Turner's shoes beside her sister, but there was no way that oaf could compete with a man like him. He was charismatic and proper, heroic and dashing. Damn near perfect, in her opinion. And, of course, he was completely smitten with Elizabeth. Wasn't it always the way?
"Natalie? Natalie!" Her sister's raised voice brought her from her thoughts with a jolt, and, for a moment, she shook her head to regain her senses. "We must be going or we will certainly be late for Master Eaton's soirée, and no amount of good looks can make up for that black mark on your social status."
With an exasperated sigh, she shook her head and picked up her satin fan, moving to the door behind Elizabeth with a mocking whisper. "Oh my, and we wouldn't want to do THAT, now would we?"
* * * *
"Clark!" Geoffrey Eaton called, his voice reverberating through the grand hall. "Clark Allen Eaton! Show yourself immediately!" He didn't have time for such foolishness this evening. A houseful of guests would be arriving shortly and there was much he had to see to before they did.
He opened his mouth once more, preparing to holler, but then he saw his son liltingly descending the spiral staircase. Shaking his head at the pathetic picture, he reminded himself that he had to get this boy to woo the fastidious Mistress Natalie Swan in a few short hours. "Clark, now!"
"Yes, Father?" he asked, approaching with a dreamy gait. Well one thing he could give the lad credit for was his appearance. Of course, money can buy attire that can miraculously alter even the most horrendous of individuals, but the gentle waves in his blonde hair, his almost translucent blue eyes, and his impeccable bone structure, proved that he'd obviously inherited his father's good looks.
With a harsh whisper, he pulled his son in close and started in quickly. "Now, son, I cannot begin to stress enough how important tonight is to the survival of this family. We are practically in debt, Clark, and unless you relish the thought of taking up a pick axe in place of that pen of yours, you'd better focus!"
Clark rolled his eyes and replied, "I know, Father. Trust me this isn't going to be difficult. Who else in there right mind has ever even approached Natalie Swan with romantic intent? Even if she isn't moved, her father wouldn't want to bring shame on the family with an old maid so she'll have to say 'yes'!"
"Clark, do not underestimate that one! She's too quiet and mindful to be true. The girl must be keeping something back, so you'd better hope you are as charming as you seem to think."
With a cocky chuckle, he pulled away from his father's grasp and leaned nonchalantly against a table full of potted hydrangeas. "Father, you're forgetting one thing. I'm a poet."
a humble fan. But anything that you don't recognize is mine, bizznitch! Steal it and I'll
go medieval on your sorry asses!!!!! Wow, just kidding. I think that just bumped me up
to a PG_13 rating, lol. Well, this is a first timer in this genre, so cut me some slack, read
and review, and enjoy!
Here's To Freedom
"Oh, Natalie, darling! You look absolutely stunning!" Elizabeth Swan said, patting her little sister's auburn curls and stepping back to admire the work of her abagails. "Thank you, ladies. That will be all."
Natalie Swan watched as the two girls left, waiting in silent dread for her sister's incessant babbling to start up again. Without distractions, the woman of twenty had the ability to go on and on for whole hours without breaking a sweat. It never ceased to amaze, really.
As the door clicked closed, Elizabeth, as expected, continued. "Well, who would have known that all of this loveliness was hiding beneath that rakish exterior of yours? Why young Clark Eaton just might fall through the floor at the sight of you, Nattie!"
At the mere mention of his name, Natalie rolled her eyes skyward in silent prayer for mercy. The man was a complete lout! And he called himself a poet, for Jude's sake! He never said anything of substance, just spouted superfluous descriptions of her "timeless" beauty that she knew he did not mean.
If he'd had his way he would be in Will Turner's shoes beside her sister, but there was no way that oaf could compete with a man like him. He was charismatic and proper, heroic and dashing. Damn near perfect, in her opinion. And, of course, he was completely smitten with Elizabeth. Wasn't it always the way?
"Natalie? Natalie!" Her sister's raised voice brought her from her thoughts with a jolt, and, for a moment, she shook her head to regain her senses. "We must be going or we will certainly be late for Master Eaton's soirée, and no amount of good looks can make up for that black mark on your social status."
With an exasperated sigh, she shook her head and picked up her satin fan, moving to the door behind Elizabeth with a mocking whisper. "Oh my, and we wouldn't want to do THAT, now would we?"
* * * *
"Clark!" Geoffrey Eaton called, his voice reverberating through the grand hall. "Clark Allen Eaton! Show yourself immediately!" He didn't have time for such foolishness this evening. A houseful of guests would be arriving shortly and there was much he had to see to before they did.
He opened his mouth once more, preparing to holler, but then he saw his son liltingly descending the spiral staircase. Shaking his head at the pathetic picture, he reminded himself that he had to get this boy to woo the fastidious Mistress Natalie Swan in a few short hours. "Clark, now!"
"Yes, Father?" he asked, approaching with a dreamy gait. Well one thing he could give the lad credit for was his appearance. Of course, money can buy attire that can miraculously alter even the most horrendous of individuals, but the gentle waves in his blonde hair, his almost translucent blue eyes, and his impeccable bone structure, proved that he'd obviously inherited his father's good looks.
With a harsh whisper, he pulled his son in close and started in quickly. "Now, son, I cannot begin to stress enough how important tonight is to the survival of this family. We are practically in debt, Clark, and unless you relish the thought of taking up a pick axe in place of that pen of yours, you'd better focus!"
Clark rolled his eyes and replied, "I know, Father. Trust me this isn't going to be difficult. Who else in there right mind has ever even approached Natalie Swan with romantic intent? Even if she isn't moved, her father wouldn't want to bring shame on the family with an old maid so she'll have to say 'yes'!"
"Clark, do not underestimate that one! She's too quiet and mindful to be true. The girl must be keeping something back, so you'd better hope you are as charming as you seem to think."
With a cocky chuckle, he pulled away from his father's grasp and leaned nonchalantly against a table full of potted hydrangeas. "Father, you're forgetting one thing. I'm a poet."