Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this chapter except for Patience Wilcox.
The Infidelity of Trust, by Verity Strange
Chapter One: Setting the Scene of an Engagement
In my earliest memory of my mother, she sternly chided my undue amount of trust. You should have been named Faith, dear, and not Patience, for you fail to live up to your name. I remember her merciless punishment, being tied by my hair to my bed without any supper, after that day. I seem to remember having committed the crime: waiting outside the butcher's for my mother, and naively taking the hand of a perfect stranger who offered to take me somewhere fun. I had been bored, and this offer sounded promising. Too bad the man was a dirty scoundrel, and probably would have committed some heinous act against me had my mother not come out at that moment!
Since that day, Port Royal surrounded me like an angry jungle, waiting to pounce for the kill. My childhood, otherwise a happy and lively one, felt rather overshadowed by a sort of lurk that my mother promised would find me someday. You keep on believing every word that comes out of someone's mouth, she said, and you will end up living dirt poor in the east end. That seemed unlikely, I thought: Mother and Father would doubtless marry me to someone of our class, perhaps a navy admiral, and he would succeed my father as General of Port Royal's branch.
I spoke with my friend Elizabeth on the matter. Of course, my friend had no head for such things as marriage, but she also has never been as trusting as I. She could fend for herself, and often did. She filled her head with pirate tales and her shoes with sea brine, but I remained at home, reading Machiavelli and Aristotle and Shakespeare. I simply did not care for so much adventure. What an interesting combination, to be both cautious and trusting! Perhaps sheltered is the choicest word.
At any rate, Elizabeth promised that I would be safe. I remember that Saturday afternoon, when we had spread a blanket on a green hill overlooking the sea, and soaked in the fresh air and sound around us. I held my book in my lap—The Canterbury Tales, by Chaucer.
"Who will you marry, Elizabeth?" I asked her. I felt worried about this matter, as my parents had spoke more frequently about it of late.
The thirteen year old girl beside me, all elbows and knees and curly hair, sighed as if the subject put her to sleep. She absently picked a blade of grass and said, "I really have no idea. Father resists the idea of my marriage, and changes the subject if it is by chance discussed."
For the first time, though, she did not say, "I don't care." I felt a bit excited, and flopped onto my stomach beside her. I was all curves where she was angles and straight hair where hers curled. "Who do you fancy, Elizabeth?"
She blushed (blushed!) and said, "You'll never believe me. I have—probably since I met him—and you met him too—well—"
"Will?" I broke in, feeling interested. He fancied her too, I wagered.
"Well, why are you so eager?" she cried defensively. "Who is it you would want?"
I had not expected this, and tried to change the subject, but Elizabeth remained stubborn. Finally I broke.
"Captain Norrington," I said, and bowed my head so she would not see my blush. When she remained silent, I looked up and saw her expression. It seemed she was torn between wanting to laugh and shriek with delight, and wanting to reach out and pat my shoulder when I cried.
"Poor Patience," she murmured, and I knew why. For, you see, Norrington fancied her.
Well, I did not give up hope, until one day, several years later, when I attended James Norrington's promotion ceremony. I met Elizabeth, we exchanged pleasantries, and I settled between my father and mother in the crowd.
I saw James (not James, Commodore Norrington, don't be improper) walk past me. How could I still love him? What would I know about love anyway? I smiled, and he smiled back. Just a smile, though. He was so polite. I suppose there was no real heart in it, but I would like to believe so.
After the ceremony, Mother dragged me into a crowd of her lady-friends. Since I was now eighteen, I could socialize like a proper lady. Of course, all they did was gossip ("Miss Suzanne MacDougal had her baby! Sweet girl, she is. I remember when she was a little one, at my door asking for sweets…"). For the most part, I ignored their conversation, smiling and nodding occasionally. My mind was in one place, and one place only: Commodore Norrington.
This is why I noticed when he delicately asked Elizabeth Swann to step aside with him.
A little part of me died. I had known all along, of course, that James (Commodore Norrington! Commodore Norrington!) fancied her. I had never considered that something would really come of this. What a fool I had been, to trust that love would carry me through!
But this was not the end of it. After a little while, I heard a yell—one of the most terrible yells I have ever heard—and someone cry out Elizabeth's name. I ran to the dock to see what the matter was—everyone else was running there too—and arrived in time to see a shaggy, wanton-looking man drag Elizabeth out of the water. He slashed her corset (what an indignity! And she was half-naked already) and Elizabeth began to breathe. I turned around and saw Norrington standing behind me.
"She is—" I began, but Norrington placed a gentle hand on my shoulder and pushed past to Elizabeth. I watched as he interrogated the ragged-looking man, who turned out to be a—
"A pirate," I breathed, holding tightly to my parasol.
The criminal suddenly grabbed Elizabeth, holding his pistol to her head. I suppose I fainted then.
When I came around, the pirate was clasped in shackles again, and being led away. The Governor and Norrington shooed Elizabeth away, and I held tightly to Mother's hand as she led me home.
"Everyone has had quite a fright," she chided, as if the scene had been my fault. I clumsily reentered my home and walked up the stairs to my bedroom.
A rough day, I thought. Why didn't James love me? What did he see in Elizabeth anyway? I felt a little rush of cold anger towards the girl. I knew it was not her fault, she did not love him, did not love him as much as I. Nevertheless, I crawled into bed, and imagined that I was a thin, pointy, curly-haired girl as madly in love with a man as he was with me.
Oh, what fantasies! And what a shock that tomorrow would bring…