“Victoria, don’t put so much food into your mouth at once.  It looks absolutely vile.”

Tory stuffed an extra-large whole boiled potato into her mouth and mumbled defiantly through it, “Stop calling me Victoria!”

After rescuing her from the Navy men at the tavern, her captor had led her back to the same mansion she had escaped from not an hour before.  It was now early evening, and Tory was sitting at a completely oversized mahogany dining table with her captor, who’s name was Harry, and his young wife Elizabeth, who had taken it upon herself to try and educate Tory in the ways of well-bred young Englishwomen.

“Tell me again how you know James,” she demanded.

Harry gave the half-masticated potato in her mouth a horrified look, but patiently replied, “I already told you, we grew up in the same town.  I suppose you could say we were ‘childhood friends’.”

“Why did he leave me here?”

“You were dying of pneumonia.  I should have thought that rather obvious.”

“Well, yes, but…” she changed tack.  “Did James say when he was coming back?”

Harry and Elizabeth looked at one another in what they probably thought was a surreptitious gesture, but flashed like a giant warning claxon in Tory’s consciousness.

Elizabeth put her fork down and chewed carefully at her tiny mouthful of roast chicken.  “Use your knife, Victoria.  Cut your food into bite-size pieces.”

“Oh, for cripes’ sake!”  Tory yanked the napkin out of her collar and tossed it angrily to the table.  “I don’t know why you’re bothering.  It’s not like we actually have knives and forks on a pirate ship.”

“Please don’t talk about pirates in my house.”  Elizabeth’s meek eyes flashed with surprising anger.

“Tory…” Harry appeared to have to force himself to use the abbreviated form of her name.  “About the whole ‘James-ship-pirate’ thing…”

The warning claxon intensified.  “What?”

“James didn’t say when he would be coming back.”

“Oh.”  Tory’s stomach took a sickening lurch, but she hid it masterfully from her two captors.  “Well, that doesn’t mean anything.  He’ll be back for me.  I’m first mate, you know.”

To his credit, Harry made no attempt to dash her fragile hopes.  Instead, he said, “That’s as may be, but in the meantime, James specifically asked us to teach you a little about life on land.”

“Why would he say something like that?”  Tory was genuinely puzzled.

“I don’t know.”  Harry gave his next statement just the right amount of pregnant pause.  “But, I’ve known James for a long time, and he never does anything without a good reason.”

“Well, I suppose if I’ve got to sit around and wait,” Tory shrugged gracelessly, “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

And she picked up a fork and began slicing her chicken into small precise bites.
* * * * * * * * * * *

“I’m going to have to get the tailor in and have some things made for you from scratch.  My dresses are almost the right length, but they don’t fit at the top.  You’ve just got nothing there!”

Tory frowned, blushed, and stole a peek down the front of her shirt as soon as she was sure Elizabeth and Mrs Thatcher weren’t looking.

It was the next morning, and the three of them were ensconced in Tory’s bedroom, attempting to find a “real woman’s” dress that fit on Tory’s small frame without billowing outrageously in the chest area.  

“But that’ll take days, Miss,” Mrs Thatcher interjected.  “And she needs something for this morning.”

“Hmm.  I suppose we could always stuff it with something.”

Tory’s ears burned even redder.  

“I’ll go find something then.”  And Mrs Thatcher bustled out.

Elizabeth turned her attention back to Tory.  “Now, Victoria.  These ladies that are coming this morning are all very fine and well-bred women, and they’re very sensitive.  You must promise that you’ll try your very hardest not to curse.  Or talk about anything to do with pirates.”

“I’ll try,” Tory mumbled, mutinously.

Elizabeth sighed.  “Perhaps it would be better if you just didn’t speak at all.  …yes, I think that’s it.  You can sit quietly and watch.  You’ll be able to learn so much from these ladies.”

As luck would have it, this morning was a Wednesday, and on Wednesday mornings, Elizabeth always hosted “sewing circle” in the parlour.  Tory had never heard of “sewing circle” before, but she had it on good authority (Mrs Thatcher’s) that it involved all the local rich wives coming over, sitting in a circle in the parlour, and sewing.  

Tory had already been informed in no uncertain terms that all well-bred Englishwomen were able to sew, and that she would be learning, starting today.

Less than hour later, Tory, laced up carefully into one of Elizabeth’s old dresses, along with several pounds of balled up material, perched herself precariously on the edge of a high-backed chair in the parlour and pasted what she hoped was a charming smile onto her face as she was introduced to “the ladies”.

“Now this is Mrs Hatter,” Elizabeth was saying.  “Her husband is the Navy Commissioner in charge of Port Royale, and her best friend Mrs Powell, the Governor’s wife.”

Tory mumbled a very soft “how do you do” under her breath and kept her eyes downcast.  This was definitely a pair to avoid.  

“And Emily Douglas.  She got married just a few months ago.”

Tory looked up and found herself staring into the soft brown eyes of a girl not much older than herself.  Emily was – if possible – even thinner than Tory herself, and sported a dark livid bruise across one forearm, which all the other women were politely pretending not to notice.  

This time, Tory offered a real smile, and received a genuine – if somewhat watery – one in response.  Emily took the chair beside her, and as if on cue, all the women began removing various bits of cloth and thread from their baskets.

Elizabeth surreptitiously slid a needle, thread, and a few holey stockings into Tory’s hands, and whispered, “Just pretend for now.  Mrs Thatcher will teach you properly later on.”

After watching the women on either side of her for a few minutes, Tory decided that darning stockings really wasn’t much different to patching sails – it was simply on a much smaller scale.  With deft fingers, she threaded her needle and set about fixing the holes in her stockings.  

And, as instructed, she kept both ears opened and listened to the ladies.  Well-bred Englishwomen, it seemed, loved to talk.  They especially loved to talk about anything remotely scandalous that anyone was up to.  Tory could see why Elizabeth had asked her not to say anything – the word “pirates” would probably have these people tittering and exclaiming away for the next several months.

“I’m telling you, it couldn’t have been Swallow’s ship,” Mrs Hatter was saying.  

Tory’s ears pricked so sharply, they almost fell right off her head.  “If that man had come anywhere near Port Royale, my husband would have caught him.  He has the harbour and docks under 24-hour guard.”

“Who’s Swallow?” she piped up, as innocuously as she could.  Several heads turned to look at her, as though surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth flushed furiously.  “She’s from the Americas, she doesn’t know about life in Port Royale…”

Mrs Hatter ignored Elizabeth and fixed Tory with a hawk-like stare.  “James Swallow,” she said, slowly and deliberately, “is the most fearsome, savage beast of a man ever to inhabit God’s green earth.  He steals, murders, plunders and ravages without mercy; the black-hearted pirate spawn of a long line of black-hearted pirates.”

This last line was delivered with incredible dramatic flourish.  For a moment, Tory seriously considered leaping up and running her cutlass through the stout woman’s ample stomach, but then remembered that she didn’t actually have a cutlass.

Instead, she settled for leaping from her chair, bounding across the circle and hovering her needle about a half-inch from Mrs Hatter’s eye.  “James Swallow is not a black-hearted pirate,” she ground out through clenched teeth.  “You take that back right now!”

Mrs Hatter’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of a needle so close.  “Good heavens, child.  Have you gone mad?”

Yeah, raging-bull mad, Tory though darkly.  “You don’t know anything about James!”

Elizabeth, looking more mortified than it should be possible for one person to look, rose from her chair, her face ashen.  “Mrs Hatter, please…I’m so sorry.  It’s her upbringing…the Americas.  They think pirates are…”

“Romantic?”  Mrs Hatter scoffed right in Tory’s face.  “You’re a fool, girl.  Any lady that has the misfortune to meet James Swallow in person wouldn’t be able to call herself a lady ever again.  You mark my words, and mark them well: if you ever hear tell that James Swallow is coming, you just turn and run as fast as those skinny little legs will take you.”

Tory’s dropped her hand holding the needle and clenched her fists tightly by her sides.  To her complete and utmost shame and horror, she could feel tears rising at the back of her eyes.  

Unable to face the prospect of crying like a girl in front of so many women, Tory whirled and rushed out of the parlour.  

Mrs Hatter turned her hawk-like stare upon Elizabeth.  “Lizzie, my dear, you would be well-rid of child.  She’s completely shot her bolt.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Elizabeth stared meekly into her lap.
* * * * * * * * * *

“You shouldn’t let Henrietta bother you so.”

Tory jumped at the sound of a soft voice behind her, and hastily scrubbed an arm across her eyes.  She was surprised to see Emily step out the back door of the house into the yard and sit down beside her.

“Henri…who?”  Tory’s curiosity overcame her misery, at least for the moment.

“Henrietta Hatter”.  Emily giggled suddenly, and her whole face lit up.  “She hates her name.  Everyone told her not to marry George Hatter…but, he has the same love for power that she does.  Henrietta loves to belittle other people and call them wrong.”

Tory took an immediate shine to this strange girl-woman with her youthful face and age-old eyes.

“Personally, I think pirates are dreadfully romantic.”  Emily looked carefully over her shoulder, then swung round and fixed Tory with a knowing look.  “You are Lighthand Tory, aren’t you.”  It was really more of a statement than a question.

Tory gulped.  “You’re not going to dob me in to the Navy, are you?”

“Good heavens, no!  I grew up with the story of how a child, not much younger than myself, managed to steal Mrs Powell’s most prized diamond necklace from right off her neck, in the middle of the Port Royale grand Yuletide ball.  I never liked Mrs Powell.”  She sighed wistfully.  “But how did you get here?  I thought you always sailed with Captain Swallow.”

Tory frowned.  “I don’t really remember.  …I think I must have been sick, and he left me here to get better.  That’s what Harry and Elizabeth told me.”

“Is he going to come back for you?”

Tory pulled absently at the leaves of a scrubby hydrangea bush beside her, her voice hollow.  “I don’t know.”

“Oh.  I’m sorry,” Emily said softly.  “But, please, just tell me one thing.  Is James Swallow really as handsome as all the stories say?”

At the mention of the words “James Swallow” and “handsome”, Tory’s mind immediately began drifting towards Daydream Land, and a hazy look dropped over her eyes.  “More handsome,” she sighed.

Emily sighed too, and for several brief moments they both stared out over the back fence, each lost to their own daydreams.  But all too soon, the spell was broken by the sound of rising voices from inside the house.  It appeared that Sewing Circle was over.

“I must go.”  Emily rose to her feet, and turned to cast one more look down at Tory’s face.  “It must be terribly difficult for you, to be trapped here on land.  But have a care, Tory.  Without a ship, you can’t just escape over the horizon, and there are people here in Port Royale who have the power and the desire to cause you a lot of pain.”

And with that, she was gone.
* * * * * * * * * *

It was only midday, and Tory, who wasn’t quite ready to face Elizabeth’s wrath after the events of Sewing Circle, decided that a walk down to the harbour might be just the thing she needed.  

After vaulting the fence into the next yard and stealing some more clothes from the neighbours’ laundry, she turned as though to set off down the main street towards the harbour – dressed this time as a servant girl, not a rich boy.

She had taken perhaps three steps when something compelled her to turn around and walk up the hill instead, - towards the governor’s mansion, the fort, and of course, the jail.  She was about three houses away from the governor’s mansion when she was again compelled to stop.  This time, however, it was no mystery as to why.  

Unlike all the other large homes on the street, this one she was now standing in front of was in a state of disrepair.  The once white-washed walls were grey with a thick coat of grime, and the unruly garden had spilled over its banks to almost completely swallow the path to the front door.  Looking up at its dark windows, Tory felt a sudden chill of foreboding work its way down her spine.

“There’s a madman lives in there, y’know.”

Tory shot almost six feet into the air at the sound of a voice behind her, then lost her balance on landing and sprawled rear-end first onto the pavement.  Looking up, her gaze was met by the same boy who had given her the hat yesterday.  To her annoyance, he was laughing openly at her.  

“For a notorious pirate, you sure are jumpy.”  He paused and looked up at the sky for a moment, as though deep in thought.  “Why, I’ll bet, you’re too scared even to go up and knock on that front door there.”  He continued looking up through this statement, as though musing to himself rather than actually talking to her.

Tory’s first instinct was to leap up and garrotte him with her bare hands.  And then, for the first time that she could remember, she ignored her first instinct and went with the second.  Slowly, deliberately, she rose to her feet, dusting the dirt from the back of her dress, and tossed her hair back from her face.

“Aye, you’ll not be convincing me to go knock on a madman’s door that easily.  You’ll have to offer me something of considerably more value than just your respect.”  She folded her arms across her chest for emphasis.  “And for a well-dressed Englishman, you sure are rude.  You’ve not even told me your name.”

“Tom Powell, Junior.”  He gave her a mocking half-bow.  

Tory felt her insides melt at his name.  Powell?  Cripes, it’s the governor’s son!  

He watched her face carefully and began laughing again, having no doubt just followed her chain of reasoning.  “Perhaps you’ll knock on the door in exchange for me not telling me Mam and Dad that you’re here.”

Tory bristled at these words.  He had her completely at his mercy, and he knew it.  But, she had been born and bred as a pirate, and when faced with dreadful odds, she did what any self-respecting pirate would do.  She bluffed.  

“You think I’d be caring about that?  I’m a notorious pirate!  How long do you think your precious father could keep me in jail before I escaped anyway?”

He shrugged.  “S’pose you’re right.”  He glanced sideways at her, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his lips.  “What about a bottle of rum?”

“What about it?”

“I’ll give you a bottle of rum if you’ll go knock on that door.”  

“Hunh.  You haven’t got any rum,” Tory challenged.

“No, but I know how to get it.”  He stared appraisingly at her.  “Boy, for a pirate you sure are a coward.”

Tory weighed her options carefully.  On the one hand, she really wanted a bottle of rum.  On the other hand, she didn’t want this kid thinking he could control her so easily.  And on the third hand, if she didn’t’ go knock on the blasted door, he would brand her a coward in his mind forever.  And to a fearsome pirate, reputation is everything.

“Fine.  I’ll go knock on your blasted door.  Lighthand Tory is not a coward.”

Without so much as a backward glance at him, she pushed through the picket gate at the front of the house and strode up the garden path, wincing as the overhanging bushes tore holes in her dress.  She gulped as she arrived at the front door.  It seemed much bigger when she was right in front of it than it had from the road.  It was dark, dark mahogany, and the brass doorknocker – almost completely black with tarnish – was in the shape of a skull.

My, how utterly charming, Tory thought, conveniently forgetting for the moment that she had spent her entire life sailing around with a skull flying from the mainmast.  Without a second’s hesitation, she reached up, grasped the knocker firmly with her left hand, and lifted it.  It was much heavier than she had anticipated, and when she let it crash back into the solid wooden door, it did so with an ominous, resounding boom!  

Tory jumped slightly at the sound and then froze on the doorstep, every muscle ready to either fight or flee.  After several seconds, nothing happened.  There was nothing but silence from within.  Hah!

Tory turned on the doorstep to face Tom, still standing out in the street, and threw her arms in the air.  “See?  Absolutely nothing to even be afraid of!” she yelled.  To her satisfaction, he was looking at her with something approaching grudging respect.  “And now you owe me a bottle of—”  

She was cut short by the sound of the massive door creaking inwards behind her.  She turned her head to look over her shoulder.  The door yawned wide behind her, revealing nothing but thick, inky gloom inside.  She found it somewhat creepy to note there did not appear to be any hand actually pulling the door open.

She glanced back to the street.  Tom’s mouth had dropped open and he was staring at the slowly opening door with something that definitely looked like terror.  Tory decided to seize this opportunity to concrete herself forever in his mind as a fearsome and fearless pirate.  And she turned and tiptoed into the enormous house.

She found herself standing in a spacious entrance hall.  The vaulted ceiling arched high above her, and the floor was coated in a thick layer of dust.  Straight ahead, several paces in front, a wide, brass-railed marble staircase curved gracefully to the second floor of the house.  To her left, there was an ornate marble fireplace, over which hung the largest painting she had ever seen.  She felt impelled to take a closer look.

On silent feet, she tiptoed over to stand in front of the fireplace, and craned her neck to see up at the giant picture.  It was easily twenty paces high, an enormous portrait of three people – a man, woman, and child.

The man was seated on a chair, and although his face was set in a grim look, his eyes positively shone with delight, as though he had some sort of happy secret.  The woman standing behind him, her hand on his shoulder, was slender and graceful, with dark brown hair piled elegantly on her head and startlingly blue eyes.  Around her neck, there was a large gold necklace, set with a deep green emerald.  The child, seated on the man’s knee, could not have been more than two years old, with a headful of soft golden curls and her mother’s blue eyes.

Tory stared, mesmerized.  She had looted enough wealthy merchandise in her life to know a good painting when she saw it – and this one had been masterfully done.  The occupants of the picture almost looked alive – they were so realistic, they even looked familiar.

Tap-tap-tap.  She was snapped from her reverie by the sound of quiet footsteps on marble.  Slowly, fearfully, she turned towards the staircase.

There, almost at the bottom, was the madman Tom had told her about.  He had shaggy, unkempt hair and a thick bushy beard.  His eyes were wide and looked half-crazed, and when he saw her, he opened his mouth and let out a harsh, guttural agchhhgh sound.

“YEAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHH!”  Tory didn’t wait to find out how mad he was.  She flew back across the hall and out the front door, tore down the front path, heedless of the bushes catching at her legs, knocked Tom flat on his rear on her way out the front gate, and didn’t stop running until she was back inside Harry and Elizabeth’s kitchen with Mrs Thatcher.