Author's Note: This is a fic I wrote some time ago and I have finally decided to post it here. I was hesitant at first because I know this site isn't very Beckett friendly and this fic has currently only be exposed to Beckett fans, but it's worth a shot. This story is a Beckett-centric fic, it does not attempt to show him as a "good guy" or a "bad guy". He is simply portrayed as, well, Beckett. This story is completed and if I receive a favorable response, I will continue to post one chapter each week. Feedback is highly appreciated. I have no beta, so any mistakes that occur are my fault alone. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or its characters.

October 2, 1729

My friendliest,

I received your last letter with much joy. It eases my heart to know you arrived safely in Port Royal, however disagreeable the climate and locals may be. Did you truly disrupt the wedding of the Governor's daughter? I know it is not my place to reprove, but I cannot help but think the matter may have been handled with more sensitivity to the bride and her groom. Recall our wedding day, if you will, dearest. I believe it is charitable to say you were most vexed. In fact, I remember you grasping onto my forearm in order to stand upright. But then, the heat was rather oppressive that day.

I am afraid I have little news for you. The weather has been mild, balmy even in the afternoons. I have taken to walking in the gardens and sitting beneath the willow tree by the stables. A family of robins is nesting under the eaves of the carriage house. They are lovely creatures and they sing all day long into the evening.

In the matter of singing, however, I have found much trouble. Remember the girl you hired just before your departure? I told you she had all the makings of a saucy wench. Her tongue is too quick and she gives herself airs. How a scullery maid can give herself airs, I shall never know. But during the past two weeks, she has threatened to drive me mad. Her favorite pastime is singing, but unlike the robins, she is not accomplished in the said vocal art.

And oh the madrigals that trip past her lips! Vile things, they are. Wicked ballads. I blushed for shame many a time. Tales of robbers and murderers and on more than one occasion, pirates.

I had the kitchen maids scold her fiercely and still she did not listen. At last, I took her to task myself. Wretch. These were her words.

"If it sore vexes Her Ladyship, then mayhap Her Ladyship should stuff her ears with cotton."

Can you imagine? Well, I sent her along without any references. I hope you are not angry with me, Cutler. I shall find another maid, perhaps a mute this time. Never did I think a servant would give me such trouble.

My sister Harriet says I am too strict a mistress. She passed by the other day and I was glad for her company. We took tea and discussed many trivial things. Though I don't think she is at all pleased with me.

Last week she invited me to a dance, a simple affair at the Southerby's estate just outside of Bath. There I made the acquaintance of a false young woman. Abigail Harkins was her name.

She discussed for a many minutes the wondrous virtues of her fiancé, a Captain in the 23rd Foot. But I found her praises tedious and remarked that I was fortunate to have a Lord for a husband and not some foolish soldier.

At which point she inflicted many harsh words upon your character and mine. I then told her, with little fuss, that I hoped her intended would be ripped to pieces by a stray cannonball. Miss Harkins called me a "horrid shrew" and said that we (you and I that is) were quite deserving of each other. She then departed.

I do not think I am a shrew. Do you? Truthful, perhaps. But not shrewish.

You inquired as to the well-being of your horses and I am glad to report that they are in good health. So the coachman informs me. Marcus, the bay stallion, has sired another foal with the grey mare. I know you should be pleased to hear such.

There is another bit of news I wish to leave you with but I find myself dallying about it. Since picking up my pen I have twice left my parlor and consumed three cups of tea. In short, dearest, I do not know how to word this. Forgive me if I sound blunt or foolish.

Six weeks after your departure I began to feel ill. I sent for the physician and he suggested I send for the midwife.

It appears that I am in circumstances.

I will say no more on the matter for I have very little to say. Instead, I leave you with the words of Marcus Aurelius and pray that you take heed.

"Everything that happens, happens as it should and if you observe carefully, you will find this to be so."

Your dearest wife,

Lady Anne Beckett