It has been nearly 6 years since she had last seen her husband sail away into the horizon with a green flash. Her boy, Henry, bless him is sitting on the floor next to her, holding a toy boat and is pretending to make it float down a make believe river. His nurse is doing the same with another boat, pretending that her toy boat is one of the Royal Navy, after Henry’s Black Pearl miniature.
“You spoil him,” drawls the familiar voice that is Hector Barbossa. He is dressed in the dark blue of those under the King’s employment.
“Yes,” Elizabeth says as they both take a gentle sip of their tea, “He is my boy after all.”
“Takes after you,” Barbossa says over his teacup. He never quite let go of his flirtatious smile and pirate’s drawl so whatever words come out of his mouth are low and gutteral and never quite in the right order, but Miss Elizabeth Turner can understand him quite the same. It is better for them both that he keeps to this type of speech. He is more comfortable for one. And Elizabeth is most definitely not going to force him to use the educated speech of the high born and learned, no matter how much her peers complain.
Elizabeth’s smile is gentle as she toys with the knife seated on their little tea table. The breeze that floats through their little viewing room picks up suddenly and makes the curtains fly in a poor imitation of a pirate’s flag. For a brief moment there is a muffled flap and snap of fabric unfurling and then pulling taut, as though falling through the air and then filling to hold the winds that will pull it forwards.
There is a crash of good silverware on the floor, the sound of a sword unsheathing and a small gasp as a young body is suddenly pulled backwards away from the window.
“Miss Elizabeth?” wonders the butler from the now open door to their viewing room.
The silence is long but somehow not uncomfortable. Elizabeth’s servants are used to seeing their mistress standing with her feet apart, her skirts clutched in one hand and sword (or knife) in the other. They are also used seeing her companion in a similar position, hands poised to shoot or stab whatever enemy comes through the door.
It is another moment before Elizabeth sighs, straightens and puts the knife back down onto the table. The wind is gone, the curtains have been tamed by the maids who don’t fear the mysterious and after a moment, everything is mostly back in order.
Henry is awed. He has never seen his mother look so… Piratish, so like what he imagines Hector Barbossa looks like without his wig and dark blue privateer’s uniform and ridiculous makeup. “Mama?” he wonders as he tiptoes up to her, eyes wide with wonder and delight.
Elizabeth can only smile at her son. Out of the corner of her eye, Barbossa is looking at her with such an expectant smirk that it makes her want to laugh.
“How about I tell you a story about pirates?”