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DARE Author: Ellie Disclaimer: What Commodore? No, of course I haven’t got one living in my guest room; don’t be ridicu – oh. Oh, that Commodore. Um. I’m borrowing him from Disney? Summary: Before the Navy, James Norrington met you, a girl who happened to know a very interesting game. However, when your little pastime of Dare began to tread along the very matters that decided which direction your lives would turn, you both had to wonder: Just when did it stop being a game? And more importantly, could there be more than just challenge behind the words, “I Dare You”? Dedications: To my darling Ebony, for believing in me every step of the way, even when I thought I’d never finish the first chapter. Also, this is for my lovely Kaellana, who knew, understood, and loved James way before I did; you were the first of millions, Kae – brilliant call. You and I, dear, we share the same brain when it comes to this man. Jamie is for you. Author's Note: Inspired greatly by a fantastic French movie called Jeux d’enfants. The plot is pretty much theirs, but with the twists of my own hand. James’ character was calling for another story, after all, in celebration of the next Pirates film. ;) * * * * * Prologue It all started in London, this childhood memory of imaginary friends, games of pretend, and lullabies that, even now, still hover on the edge of memory with the whisper of my mother. I still lived there, and the thought of crossing the ocean, in all her vastness and danger was simply another game to me and to the other children. We had never thought of leaving Europe and our beloved streets of London, but I suppose even childhood dreams and hopes can come shattering down, fragile and innocent as they are. Even now, as an adult, as a man, dreams can still break just as easily. Dreams and hopes are, I regret, some of the things that have not vanished with my childhood, and neither has their tendency to be dashed away. Which is why, I suppose, I have put the “Regret” in there as well, as dreams are not made to be broken in the first place – whether they are the dreams of a pirate or a little boy. Everyone was little at some point of their life, after all. And for me, so much has disappeared with the little boy of before, left behind on the cobblestones of London. Or on the front steps of the Norrington household. My household. At the moment of this story, though, it was not exactly mine, since my father was still very much alive and the head of the house. I just happened to live there as well, as his son, now Commodore James Norrington of Port Royal. Except, of course, it is much to my chagrin that I did not hold such a title back then; even less so a name as long-winded as that. No. Back then, I was known as – and here I must tell you that I am cringing – Jamie, and not even James. And most definitely not even Commodore, as this was clearly before I took part in any aspect of the Navy (though that does come into the story at some point). But I am afraid that this is not the point of my tedious rambling on; there is a point, however, which is why I am taking the time to get to it – it’s important. As I said: It started in London, at the front porch of my home. There was a girl. There was a little stuffed bear. And a game that came with both. * * * * * CHAPTER 1 – A Proper Encounter “What’s the matter, Miss? Didn’t they teach you birds balance in school?” “Oi, George. Reckon we should ‘elp ‘er up, then?” “What you babblin’ for, Charlie? She’s one o’ them ones what waddle ‘round with fat purses and wigs!” “She don’t gots no wig, Bill.” “Shut it, Charlie!” “I’m only sayin’!” This is not going well, you grumbled silently as you tried to disentangle your skirts from the prickly bush you had not-so-gracefully fallen in only seconds before. The lacy trimmings were caught on some brambly branch and the silk was shredding something awful and it was going to rain soon and you were late, and things were just simply dreadful. Scruffy, dirty, and unfortunately tall, you were surrounded by a few urchins of the cobblestones of London, and you were late to Grandmother’s tea as it were. Your Grandmother was a stern woman, impressive with her steely eyes and equally steel-grey hair, pulled back into its severe bun; her face was pointed in such a way that she reminded you of those wicked witches you read about in books, and she always smelled like old flowers, too. No. As much as you disliked the woman, you didn’t want to be late to Grandmother’s tea – missing Grandmother’s tea was wrong, and Grandmother didn’t like her granddaughter to be wrong. Oh, no. You had to be a proper lady. Ugh. Proper lady. How you hated the lectures on how to be perfect, the rigid rules, the stupid tea. It was always tea. Tea, tea, bloody stupid tea. It didn’t even taste good! There was no point! It was all lace and feathers and gloves and hand fans and Oh, what a lovely dress, Miss Emerson and chatter about this husband and that husband like they were the catch of the day, fiancées and MANNERS. It was enough to make any eight year old go positively insane! And besides, how could you be a proper lady when your once-impeccable cobalt skirts were splashed with mud and your perfectly powdered face was smeared with water from the gutter? Stupid Grandmother, you decided irritably. This is her fault. Grimy hands tugged at your carefully arranged coiffure, pulling once-curled auburn locks free, tangling with leaves and thorns and smashed berries and you were still stuck in the bush. The boys jeered, leered in your face, their faces streaked with mud and their clothing worn away as sly fingers grabbed at anything that looked valuable. When you watched them from your balcony, from your window, from your carriage, they weren’t too bad at all, and you actually felt sorry for them. Well. You learned your lesson the hard way, didn’t you? “Expect she’s got anything worth taking, then?” “Cor, lookit this! Reckon we’d get a decent meal from this trinket!” One of the boys – Bill, the one that seemed like the ringleader of this band of vagabonds – held up what you recognized as your necklace. It was silver, it had a diamond, it was shiny, and it was expensive. Oh, yes. And it was Grandmother’s. “Give it back!” you cried from your ruffled mess in the bush. You were still stuck, you couldn’t see any help, and your lip was trembling and you did not want to cry in front of these… these… boys! “Don’t you take that! I swear, when my Grandmother hears about this –” “Aww, did ya hear that, George? She’s going to tell her Grandmother.” You winced; you knew it was a feeble threat to these boys, who had never met your Grandmother, but what else could you do? Your parents were sadly deceased and you lived with your sister, who wasn’t nearly as commanding as the Emerson Matriarch. The one with the dirty blonde hair – George, you realized – loomed in your face, grinning with rotting teeth, breath steaming over your face like some foul cloud. You resisted the urge to gag. “No one’s comin’, lass,” he smirked. “Shouldn’t have gone out on your own, eh? Innit ‘gainst rules?” “Oh, what do you know about rules, you filthy commoner!” You knew it was rude, you knew it was wrong, but the words tore from your lips anyway and for a minute, the three boys looked surprised by your sudden comeback. “It’s skirts like you,” spat Charlie, suddenly annoyed, “that gives us commons a bad name.” “We’ll be takin’ this too,” added Bill, snatching the lace sash from your dress, the white fabric stained but still flawless in its design as it fluttered in the chill wind. You pulled back your leg – from your position, a well-aimed kick could not go wrong – and let out a shrill cry of fury that only a girl could utter, foot barreling right between the legs of the blonde one. “LORD ALMIGHTY!” “Why, you little wretch –” “You leave her alone!” The new voice made you open your eyes, so tightly shut only a few seconds earlier. The boys paused as well, whipping around, heads turning as they tried to find who had spoken, who had dared interrupt their little bout of innocent pick pocketing. Just a few feet away, you caught sight of a boy, no more than 10 or nine years of age, brown hair pulled back into a little pigtail, riding boots shined to perfection and a striking velvet coat of deep emerald to top it all off; the colour set off his eyes, which were a lighter shade of green, but no less impressive than his attire as they flashed with annoyance and anger. “Come to join the fun, eh, Sir?” quipped one of the boys with a maddening grin. The boy strode towards you, back straight, chin held high, much like how your sister’s courtier presented himself. “I order you to leave her alone,” he stated regally; and if he wasn’t shorter than that Bill fellow, it would have been imposing. “Order, eh?” scoffed the lanky leader. “Listen here, mates! We’ve got a pompous one, we have!” “My father, who is a Lieutenant,” snapped the boy, “does not approve of such actions towards a lady. You will leave now, if you value your lives.” You watched the exchange with wide eyes, not quite sure what to make of this boy. Was he lying, was he just throwing threats to these ruffians, scaring them off? He certainly did look like he meant every word, though, and perhaps you could get to Grandmother’s tea after all! The urchins had paled at the boy’s words; apparently the thought that the boy could have been lying did not cross their minds. “W-well,” stammered Charlie with as much dignity as he could muster, “We don’t need nothing from the likes of you anyways. Contaminated with noble.” And with that, the three boys hurried away (the one you had just kicked more like hobbled instead), dropping your necklace in a puddle in their haste. At once, the green-eyed, green-jacketed boy turned towards you and held out a hand, smiling kindly – his teeth were a bit big, you thought absently as you took his hand gratefully, letting him pull you to your feet, but he had a nice smile. Once you were free from the clutches of prickly vegetation, you quickly scanned your clothes and whined with aggravation when you saw what state you were in. Mud. There was lots of it, and the spots not covered with the sludgy mess were torn and scratched from the bush. You brought a hand up to your hair and sighed when fingers met with leaves. You could only imagine what you looked like to your rescuer, and again, your eyes burned with tears of frustration. What would Grandmother say now? Oh dear, you suddenly thought. Your rescuer. You hadn’t thanked him! Quickly, you dropped into a curtsy, or at least, a curtsy that your rumpled skirts would allow, and bobbed politely. You kept your eyes lowered, however, because you were starting to cry and you wouldn’t let him see you because it wasn’t proper. “Thank you, sir,” you heard yourself stammer, and you were horrified when your voice came out wobbly and distraught. That wasn’t supposed to happen! “I’m not a sir yet,” came the serious answer, and despite yourself, you looked up to better see him. He was smiling, even though his tone was carefully schooled into polite, and oh, were those freckles over his nose and cheeks? He inclined his head and said, “My Father’s the sir in the house; he’s the Lieutenant, and I’m just James Norrington.” He wrinkled his nose for a moment, freckles scrunching up, and you giggled, a sniffly sort of giggle, but it was there, because the expression was just so improper that you had to laugh. “But that sounds old, so you can call me Jamie if you want and –” he paused, brows furrowing for a second. “Here, are you crying?” If you could swear, you’d be swearing now, you thought. You hadn’t realized that tears were running down your cheeks, but things were just going so bad and you knew Grandmother would be upset with you later but you couldn’t help it, especially with this Jamie being so nice. “Oh, please don’t cry; but Mother says that crying –” “Isn’t proper, I know!” These were your first actual words to this boy, and quite frankly, they were rude, but you were angry, you were filthy, and you wanted to go home. “I was going to say that Mother says that crying makes you feel better sometimes,” said the boy quietly. “So it’s all right to.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, and he handed it to you; you took it, and he looked away politely, but not before stooping to the ground and picking up your necklace. “Thank you, sir,” you managed to sniffle around the handkerchief, dabbing at your eyes as best you could without actually getting dirt on the white linen. Jamie handed you your necklace with a faint smile and reminded you gently, “Jamie, Miss...?” You offered a watery smile in return, weaving the silver chain between your fingers, letting the rainwater drip off the pendant in cloudy droplets; “Katherine Emerson.” Jamie nodded, bowing just so that it was courteous as well as an acknowledgement. “Miss Emerson,” he said, all of a sudden manners and propriety again, “if I may be so bold, why were you traveling unaccompanied?” “I…” You floundered for a response; the truth was that you had no maid to accompany you, and the only carriage your family possessed was currently being used by your sister, so you really had no choice but to walk. Though you were well-dressed – or at least, as well-dressed as your current state would warrant – you were not extremely wealthy. What fortune you had was carefully kept and counted. Ever since your parents’ death, you and your sister had inherited all that was left, though it wasn’t much. Your father was a soldier in the Royal Navy and perished at sea, your mother a kindly woman who, a few months after your father’s passing, fell ill and followed him. You were six years old when it all happened. Even though it was still difficult, you and your sister (Beatrice was her name) lived comfortably enough, deciding that it was much too costly to keep the entire household staff, and so dismissed a few of them. What remained was the cook, a portly but cheerful woman named Hannah, a few maids, and your sometimes-nanny, Sarah. As it just so happened, Sarah was away at her parents’ for the weekend, as her younger sister had fallen ill and rushed to take care of her. But, the clothes you wore were gifts from your Grandmother, the stately woman who considered herself much too old to take in children under her care. They were the only clothes that seemed befitting of the more noble-blooded Londoners, and you tried to keep them pristine for special occasions. Of course, as all of this came rushing back, you realized that if your dress was ruined, you would have to return to the simple, but pretty frocks that you thought were perfectly fine, but your Grandmother frowned deeply upon. Which basically meant that they were unacceptable. “Yes, Miss Emerson?” You blinked, looking back at the boy with wide eyes, suddenly and terribly uncertain of what to do next. “I was visiting my Grandmother,” you managed to say. “We – we live close-by, you see, so I felt that I needn’t use the carriage and walked and my maid…” What now? You were already lying to this boy, continue or say the truth? “My maid is ill.” Technically, your lie wasn’t really a lie; someone certainly was ill, it just wasn’t Sarah. You felt better of it already, knowing this. “Oh,” frowned Jamie, who seemed to think that you should have brought along at least another maid or some form of protection, but decided not to voice these thoughts aloud. “I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you, though I am glad for your help,” you added, hoping to change the subject. “Oh, not at all a problem, Miss,” Jamie said, snapping out of his thoughts. “I was visiting my Father out on the docks, since he has just returned home and was simply heading back myself...” Piercing blue eyes met with yours and they suddenly lit up with inspiration. “Excuse me, Miss Emerson?” “Please, Sir – I mean… Jamie, call me Kat. I don’t think it’s too exciting to have to be so proper all the time,” you replied kindly. Jamie flushed. “Of course, Miss Kat. I was just wondering if you would like to return to my home, to… ah…” He bit is lip, wondering if he was speaking out of turn before he simply blurted, “Tidy up, perhaps?” You raised your brows at him, surprised. “Wouldn’t your Father mind?” you asked curiously. Jamie suddenly grinned at you, glad that his words did not offend. “No, because he’s meeting some of his companions, and won’t be home till late, I expect. My Mother is very good with a needle and I’m sure she would be glad to help mend your dress.” You nibbled your lower lip, brows furrowed in serious thought. Grandmother’s tea, or your new friend? Grandmother would surely be upset, and you were certain you would receive a strict telling off from her via messenger the next morning. And if she found out about this little incident and that the dress she had given to you “out of the goodness of her heart” had been quite dirtied, she would probably even consider scolding you in person. Oh, really, like that should be a difficult decision. “Thank you. That would be lovely.” * * * “Oh, sir, I don’t know.” Jamie turned around, brows raised curiously. You were hovering just outside his doorway, eyes darting from your muddy shoes to his spotless foyer, complete with Oriental carpeting. You were already overwhelmed by the sheer… well, vastness, there was no other word for his home. It was gigantic, it was white and clean and painted and had a gorgeous garden. Certainly much bigger than your own home, and clearly more… Well. Expensive. That made you terribly uneasy. You raised a hand to rub halfheartedly at the dirt you knew was smudged across your nose and looked at your new friend helplessly. He was a boy, yes, and boys were stupid creatures who didn’t know how to comb their hair or wear their tunics right-side-round, but he also rescued what dignity you had left. If people of your class still held what was considered dignity, of course. But, of course, what else could you do? He had a kind smile with too-big teeth, freckles all over, and green eyes that you rather liked because they were so friendly. But he invited you to his home! Not as if that was a bad thing either, but surely his Father, the Lieutenant, would be upset if he saw mud tracked into his house? And following that trail of mud, to find his wife and son attending to some little girl’s dress that probably wasn’t even worth saving? Little Jamie, on the other hand, was politely puzzled by you. What sort of young lady traipsed down the streets of London, alone and unaccompanied, with valuables? It was a welcome invitation to pickpockets and cruel men who delighted in stealing such children and – He inwardly shuddered. Such thoughts weren’t right at all. But still, he marveled; what parents would let their daughter do such a thing? If he had a little sister, Jamie decided, he would protect her any way he could. With a sword and pistol against all sorts of things like pirates and dragons and there would be treasure, of course, and he’d be captain of a fleet of ships, and oh, wouldn’t his father be proud? He didn’t have a sister, of course, so he supposed you’d do for practice until then. He watched you, half exasperated, half amused as you fidgeted in the doorway. “Honestly, Jamie, this is sweet of you but –” “You’re not scared, are you?” teased the boy, deciding that manners were far too tedious to deal with so late in the afternoon. You pouted before you could help it. “I most definitely am not!” “Then come inside, Miss Kat, before the rain decides it wants to clean you up instead of a bath.” Glowering, because you were surely cheated into entering his home, you followed your new friend, Young Master James Norrington, on tiptoe. You were trying to be discreet about it, too, but – “Why ever are you walking on tiptoe, Miss Kat?” With a dainty sniff, you replied, “So as to not soil your carpets, Sir.” He grinned. “There is no need to call me ‘Sir,’ Miss Kat, I promise you.” Helplessly, you returned his smile with the faintest of blushes. “Then do drop the ‘Miss’ before my name, please.” He led you into the parlour, where a young serving maid immediately bustled into the room with a silver tray laden with tea and biscuits and things. Another young woman dressed in similar manner to the first walked in and draped a blanket over one end of the chaise lounge and curtsied to you, gesturing to it. You blinked, staring at the blanket, and then belatedly curtsied in return. Jamie smiled. “Here, you can sit and have some tea; warm up some while I fetch my mother. Oh, don’t worry about it,” he added when he saw you hesitate to sit in your muddy skirts. “The blanket’s there so you can sit, and we can always wash it, right, Theresa?” He turned his big-teethed smile to the maid who had set the blanket down in the first place. She bobbed again, smiling. “Yes, sir.” “See?” he said kindly. “No need to worry. Oh, go on, Kat, or I shall call you Miss again.” You wrinkled your nose and resisted the urge to stick your tongue out at him. You settled tentatively on the edge of the chaise and looked at him with a “There, are you HAPPY?” expression and he simply beamed again and headed out towards the stairs. As soon as he was gone, Theresa, you remembered, helped the other girl set the small table at the centre of the room with tea cups, a pot, and a platter of fresh biscuits. You smiled your thanks and they, in return, curtsied again. Just as they were about to leave, you called out, your voice small in the immense room. “Excuse me? I was… erm, wondering – I know your name is Theresa, but might I ask what your name is, Miss?” The other girl blushed prettily and smiled, “Katherine, Miss.” You brightened; her name was exactly yours! “I’m Katherine, too! Well, I suppose Jamie’ll want you to call me Miss Emerson, but if I visit again, you can call me Katherine or Kat too, all right?” Katherine the Maid glanced at Theresa, who simply giggled behind a dainty hand and curtsied again. “As you wish.” She paused, glanced over her shoulder then whispered with the faintest wink. “Miss Kat.” The two maids departed, and you busied yourself with the tea they had so kindly poured out for you. So in a way, you thought as you nibbled on a biscuit, I’m still having afternoon tea. Not with Grandmother, but it’s just as wonderful. You glanced at the doorway where the stairs lay, the ones Jamie had dashed up. Perhaps even better, you decided. After a few moments, however, you grew bored, as young children are wont to do. Once again, your eyes looked around the grand room with awe and maybe just a little bit of jealousy. It was beautiful. The fireplace was tucked neatly into one side of the room, a handsome rug sprawled before it. There was another sofa, a dusty gold in colour with tiny embroideries on the cushions arranged on it – this one sat directly across from you, and in between was the low, dark wood table with the tea set. When you glanced to your left, great windows, not quite ceiling to floor but huge nonetheless, overlooked a small but pleasant garden. It was spring, so the bushes and vines were alive with a riot of colour, ranging from reds, to pinks, to dusky violets and pale blues. The occasional butterfly fluttered past, but that soon lessened as the skies overhead began to rumble and churn with thick, grey clouds. You sighed, taking another sip of your already lukewarm tea. The luxury you lived in was more like a façade to the other families of society. Sometimes you heard hushed discussions behind locked doors late at night, when everyone thought you were asleep. Your sister would be in the study, already so much like your mother when your father was away on a voyage, handling the family affairs, taxes, and budgets. Certainly not a woman’s job, but it had to be done. You would press an ear to the door, trying to overhear what your sister was saying, her tone frantic, to some unnamed stranger (probably a friend of the family). You never really understood what was going on, young as you were, but you were certain you heard the words “home,” “sell,” and “money” on more than one occasion. Though you knew your family wasn’t exactly as wealthy as it used to be, the full extent of the damage left behind by your parents’ deaths was always hidden away from your innocent eyes. But it wasn’t just you, of course; your Grandmother hardly knew the situation either. Your sister was too proud to admit it, or your Grandmother simply didn’t care – you weren’t rightly sure about this, as both reasons were very possible. Already much too uncomfortable in your mud-encrusted dress, you slipped off your shoes and swung your stocking-clad feet from your perch. You were getting lonely. Where was Jamie? * * * Little James Norrington was an only child in an immense home with a father who was away at sea for most of his life. Growing up was always terribly lonely, what with no siblings to pass the time with; and his father was hardly welcoming in letting him aboard his ship when he traveled to Portsmouth on rare occasions. Still, he was happy. His mother taught him the basics of reading and writing when he was a young boy – well, younger than he was now – and he carried on the rest of the way with a governess, and then by himself in his spare time. Shakespeare was always one of his favourite writers, and he spent rainy afternoons lounging about on his bed with a book nearby. Not this time, he thought as he climbed the stairs to the second landing. Shakespeare will have to wait for another rainy day. Today, we have Miss Katherine to attend to. Not that he was upset about that or anything. Jamie, as mentioned previously, was lonely growing up – this meant that any opportunity to be around someone his own age, or close to it, was very much welcome and always a treat. He rather disliked the snotty little boys he met at the occasional social gatherings he and he mother used to attend a few months ago. They were boring. Jamie liked adventure, and damsels in distress, and treasure and ships. Oh, and biscuits. Which reminds me, Jamie thought as he trotted down the long hallway, I should eat one of those biscuits later. But no. No more of those snotty little boys and social gatherings, not as of late. As Jamie knocked tentatively on his mother’s bedroom door, he realized that it would be nice to go to those boring social gatherings again, and talk to those smelly old men with powdered wigs and sit under the tables with the draped white cloths and pretend he was in a cave hunting for pirate treasure. As little Jamie entered his mother’s bedroom, he looked over at the bed and smiled brightly when he saw his mother, sitting against the pillows and reading a book. As he approached her, the thoughts of snotty little boys, smelly old men, pirates and tablecloths were shoved back. Though not quite. His mother’s illness, after all, was the reason they didn’t attend anymore. “Hello, Jamie,” Elisabeth Norrington smiled as her son entered the room. She lowered her book and held out a hand to him, which Jamie quickly took up and kissed gently. She hugged that same arm around her son and ruffled his hair fondly. “Home already?” “I just returned from the docks to greet Father,” said the young boy, settling himself on the edge of his Mother’s bed with a smile. “And how is he?” “He said that the journey home went fine, and that he” – and here, Jamie wrinkled his nose in mild disgust – “misses you and can’t wait to see you again.” In a loud whisper, he added, “Is he going to kiss you?” Elisabeth laughed, though it quickly turned into a cough. She tried to cover it up with a smile, and a waving hand, assuring her anxious son that she was alright, when she rather wasn’t. It took a while for the coughs to subside, and Jamie’s mother pressed a hand to her breast with a wince when they stopped. “Mother –” began Jamie, eyes bright and worried. “I’m fine, Jamie,” managed Elisabeth after a moment. “I just – it’s alright, really – how was your day?” Jamie frowned, not convinced at all, but leant over and quickly kissed his mother’s cheek before continuing. “I rescued a damsel in distress today,” he announced proudly. Elisabeth did not expect this at all and raised both brows at him with incredulity. “Pardon?” Jamie beamed. “You know, like in the stories you used to read to me! Except I’m not a prince or a knight, and I’m not old enough to have my own white horse yet.” His mother chuckled softly. “And where is your princess, O Great Sir Knight?” Her son wrinkled his nose again. “She isn’t my princess, Mother. I don’t even know if princesses are allowed to wear muddy dress, are they?” Again, Elisabeth Norrington raised her brows in surprise; her son was imaginative, surely, but princesses and mud? “Excuse me, Jamie dear, but did you say muddy dress?” “Yes! I saved her from those street boys, you see, they were trying to take her things and I brought her downstairs for tea because I said you might be able to help mend her dress and maybe clean up?” She blinked at her son as his words flew past. “Slow down, dear, please. You saved her from being robbed, yes, very well done and brought her in for tea? That’s lovely. But what’s this about her dress?” Jamie rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “You have to listen carefully, Mother,” he insisted. “They splashed mud on her dress and tore it a bit, so I thought, since you’re so good with a needle, that you might be able to help?” “And what is your princess’ name?” “She’s not my princess, Mother!” reminded Jamie with a deep blush. “Her name is Miss Katherine Emerson, but she says I’m to call her Kat, which is alright, isn’t it?” “Of course, dear. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to mend her dress,” murmured Elisabeth to her son softly as she stroked his hair. “Perhaps Theresa could? She’s a fair seamstress.” “But Mother, I promised her you could do it,” said Jamie, looking a bit dejected now. “I am sorry, dear, but I cannot right now. But before she leaves, perhaps you could take her up so that I may meet her? She does sound charming,” came the gentle reply. “Don’t look so sad, my Jamie, it’s alright – even for princes and knights – to not be able to keep their promises.” Jamie smiled sadly and embraced his mother tightly before slipping off the bed. “Do you promise you can meet her later?” he asked quietly. Elisabeth smiled; “I promise to meet your princess, dear. Now go on, before she runs off with another dashing young hero.” Jamie raised his chin stubbornly. “There is no one more dashing than I,” he declared. His mother laughed and waved him on his way. Just as Jamie was about to depart, he turned around again and added, “And she is not my princess, Mother.” She chuckled softly as her son left her room with a merry wave and soft click of the door. She sighed and looked back to her book, the pages yellow with age, the words faded from being read time and time again. Her smile was faint as she traced fondly over the worn leather spine and gilded title. English Fairy Tales. Elisabeth Norrington read the stories to her son when he was younger. With any luck, she mused as she returned to the well-traveled pages she knew so well, He’s found his princess. * * * You glanced up from your tea when you heard footsteps coming down the stairs again. As discreetly as you could, you arranged your skirts into a more presentable state, though you wondered briefly what the point of it would be. You raised a hand to brush over your unpinned hair when Jamie walked into the room; you quickly dropped your hand back to your lap with a blush. “Hello, there,” said Jamie amiably, as he walked over to the table and helped himself to a biscuit. He nibbled on it and glanced out the window, where the garden beyond was distorted by the rain pelting the glass panes. “It’s raining,” you volunteered unhelpfully, with a smile. “Started a few minutes ago, actually.” Jamie nodded and looked back to you, expression musing. “Erm. I’ve a thought – I’ll be right back.” And with that, he dashed off again, with you left confused in his wake. A few moments later, however, he returned with the maid – Theresa, you remembered with a cheery wave and smile – and wandered over to you, expression still thoughtful. “Theresa’s a rather good seamstress,” he explained. “My mother can’t… well, she can’t come down at the moment, but she does want to meet you later, so Theresa will take care of your dress, alright?” You frowned at the flicker in his expression when he mentioned his mother, but decided that it might be a bit rude to ask or point it out. Dusting your hands of biscuit crumbs as best you can, you get up from the chaise and wince a bit at the stain left by your dress on the blanket. Automatically, you murmured an apology, knowing that it might prove difficult to remove a muddy stain from the cloth. Jamie smiled again, that big-toothed smile you couldn’t help but grin at. “It’s alright,” he assured you, taking your hand politely and leading you over to Theresa, who bobbed in a curtsy again and returned your smile. “Now, Theresa shall do a fine job, won’t you?” he said kindheartedly. Theresa nodded her head, already looking over your dress with a critical eye. “I’ll do my best, Sir,” she replied. “Though,” she added to you as she began to finger the tears in your skirt, “I don’t think we can clean your dress. If the young master here had a sister, maybe around your age, we could have lent you a dress, but…” she trailed away apologetically. Jamie laughed from his place on the long sofa, already helping himself to some tea. “I was thinking that myself, a while back, actually.” With a flourish of biscuit, he said, “But we can neaten you up a bit, and perhaps you could try and clean your dress at home?” You nodded as Theresa knelt to get a better view of your skirts, tiny as you were. “I’m very grateful for all this already,” you replied, giggling. “It’s really very kind of you.” Your host blushed again, hiding it behind his tea cup as he took a hasty sip. “I couldn’t leave you out there alone, with the rain and all.” You threw him an indignant pout. “I can take care of myself, Mister Jamie.” He grinned teasingly, but not unkindly. “Oh, certainly, Miss Kat. That peony bush was quite brutally defeated after you sat on it.” Despite yourself, you giggled again, hiding it behind a hand you so carefully wiped clean a few moments earlier. You and Jamie spoke across the room as Theresa mended your dress as best she could. The afternoon passed lazily, the rain continuing in a melodious pitter-patter in the background, drops bouncing off the bright green leaves in the garden. Fifteen minutes or so had passed as you were humming a tune under your breath to keep yourself occupied; Jamie had run upstairs to get his Shakespeare book, since, as he explained to you patiently, he liked to read it on rainy days. So now he sat, curled comfortably in a corner of the sofa as he read, and you hummed and hummed and began to sing a few verses in a whisper. “Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home across the sea,” you sang absently, gazing at a painting hanging over the fireplace. “Rolling home to dear old England… Rolling home, dear land to thee…” Jamie looked up from his book when your words drifted over to him, the tune of the song familiar to his ears, “What’s that?” he asked, before he could stop himself. You glanced over your shoulder to him, blinking. “What’s wha – oh,” you said, blushing. “You heard?” “Yes, I did. I’ve heard it before, but I can’t quite remember…” You nodded slightly and answered, “It’s a sea song. My… my Da taught it to me. I – I mean,” you stammered, frowning now in thought. “I recall him singing it.” “Recall?” Jamie repeated, puzzled. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, his eyes widened with realization. “Oh. Oh dear. I’m sorry,” he mumbled, embarrassed. You shook your head, smiling again. “I don’t even remember it now. It doesn’t matter.” Jamie smiled a bit uncomfortably and looked back to his book, suddenly not in the mood to read again. You had lost your father. What had he done, how did he die? Was it at sea, as was likely to be his own father’s end, or an illness, like… He paled and shook away the thought, trying to lose himself in the pages of poetry once more. Another few minutes passed in silence before Theresa stood, brushing the hair from her eyes and looking over your dress again. “There,” she smiled triumphantly. “You barely even notice the tears, Miss, if I do say so myself. All this needs now is a good scrubbing, and your dress will be as pretty as ever.” You smiled gratefully and curtsied. “Thank you very much, Miss Theresa.” The maid smiled. “It was nothing, Miss. Now, your hair…” she murmured, walking around to your back and patting it thoughtfully. “I can’t do the same style, not with the time,” she said, “But I can neaten it up a bit.” And with that, she undid your hair fully and ran her fingers gently through it to get rid of the worst tangles. She separated your hair into three equal parts and began to swiftly braid it, then coiled it and pinned it neatly to the back of your head. She then took a damp washcloth that you hadn’t noticed on the floor and wiped your face with it, smiling fondly. “I have a younger sister, same age as you,” she commented as she wiped away the dirt on your right cheek. “I used to help her like this all the time.” You grinned at the maid before the washcloth swiped across your mouth. In a few more moments, she was finally done. “There we are, Miss, good as can be.” “Thank you again, Miss Theresa.” The maid curtsied, gathered her things, and departed. You turned back to Jamie, who was putting away his book and standing. You grinned at him and twirled on the spot, arms outspread. “Well? Better?” He laughed. “Much.” He paused, then said curiously, “But you aren’t wearing any shoes.” You giggled and stepped over to your slippers that lay by the chaise and slipped them on. “Now I am. Shall we to your Mother?” Jamie smiled. “We shall.” He offered you his arm, which you knew to take, and escorted you upstairs. * * * Elisabeth Norrington glanced up from her book when she heard the soft knock on her door that really belonged to only one person. “Come in, Jamie.” Her son entered, beaming as he led a young girl, notably younger than him, into the room. The girl was blushing, but her shyness did not overrun her manners as she curtsied courteously. Jamie’s mother sat up a little straighter on her cushions and inclined her head politely, with a pleasant smile. “Hello, there. You must be Miss Emerson.” “Yes, Miss,” you replied, smiling at the kindly woman on the bed. James had whispered to you, as he lead you up the stairs, that his mother was feeling a little under the weather (you couldn’t blame her, you had thought when he told you; the weather has been simply dreary the past few days) so she was in bed for the day. “Well, come here, dear, so I can take a good look at you,” said Elisabeth, still in that sweet, kind tone. You glanced at Jamie uncertainly, who nodded and urged you on with a gentle nudge, and you stepped over to the bed, smiling a bit. “Yes, Miss?” Elisabeth beamed. “You were right, Jamie,” she said with just the right amount of teasing that was appropriate for a lady. “She is lovely.” Your eyes widened in surprise and you looked over your shoulder to your new friend, who was blushing brightly and mumbling, “Mother,” under his breath. You grinned at his obvious mortification, looking back to his mother in a new light. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home, Miss Norrington,” you smiled. “I do like your garden.” “Oh, thank you, dear. I like it too; I used to work in the garden when I was younger – it’s my favourite part in the entire house,” she added with a conspiratorial whisper and wink. You giggled. “It’s very pretty.” Elisabeth nodded, taking a liking to her son’s guest. “Well,” she began after exchanging a few pleasantries with you and now speaking to her son as well, “I do believe it’s getting late, and Miss Emerson should be home soon. Jamie, dear, would you be so kind as to escort her home?” Jamie smiled and nodded. “Of course, Mother. I’ll be home before supper,” he added as he took your hand and led you towards the door again. You turned and curtsied again to Mrs. Norrington who waved and smiled before you were pulled into the hallway. They’re all really very nice, you thought absently as you bade farewell to Theresa and Katherine and headed towards the door. The rain had stopped and left that lovely, spring-fresh feeling hanging in the air, where everything was glistening with rain and the colours were brighter. You waited by the gate as Jamie dashed back into his house to fetch something and looked at him curiously when he came back out, jacket bunched oddly in one side, though you didn’t ask. He walked side-by-side with you as you wove your way home, though you didn’t want him to really see where it was, a little ashamed at how it paled in comparison to the glamour he grew up in. The sky was that marvelous faded blue before twilight, and you worried that Jamie might not get home on time; especially with how far you lived from his home. Finally, you stopped a block from your home, which was directly behind you now. You turned around and glanced to the house, where your window sat overlooking the very spot you and Jamie stood. You smiled and said, “Now, you mustn’t come to the front gate. My sister is a little eccentric, you see.” You wildly spun the truth as you went on; you were trying to make sure he never really saw your home. “If you want to talk to me, or for me to come down, just stand here, and you can call out my name.” You pointed. “That’s my window, so I’m sure to hear you.” Jamie looked confused, but didn’t ask; he probably thought it was better not to. “Alright,” he nodded. “So I can visit you sometimes?” “If you call me from here, yes,” you reminded. He smiled. “Very well. And perhaps you could visit me sometime; I’m always glad for the company.” You were about to curtsy him farewell when he stopped you with a quick, “Just a moment.” “Yes?” He was suddenly fidgeting, blushing furiously again. He reached into his jacket and drew out an old, worn-by-care teddy. It was small, perhaps the length of your forearm (as a child, that wasn’t very long), and it was missing a button eye. You blinked at it, then looked at Jamie questioningly. “Just… to keep you company,” he explained, smiling a little uncertainly. “You can’t – you can’t really have it, since my… Mother gave it to me, but – you can borrow it sometimes, and maybe I can borrow it back?” You smiled brightly and carefully took the bear, cradling it in your arm, and with your other hand, lifted your skirts in a quick curtsy. “Of course!” you exclaimed in answer. “I’ll take very good care of it.” Jamie smiled, relieved, and bowed. “Thank you.” “Oh, no, thank you, Jamie. You were such a gentleman today. Thank you.” And, rising for your curtsy, and knowing for all the world that it was terribly improper to do so, you leant over and gave your big-toothed-smiled, green-eyed, green-jacketed rescuer a quick kiss on his freckly, blushing cheek and ran off down the street, rounded the corner, and vanished. Jamie stood there, blinking, surprised. He raised a hand to his cheek and glanced towards your window, waiting, waiting for you to emerge, certain that you would. Surely enough, a few long minutes later, you peeked out from your window, beamed, and waved. Your mouth opened and you said something, but Jamie couldn’t hear it, as a horse-drawn carriage trotted past. “What?” he shouted. “Jamie!” you called. “Jamie! Next time, you could kiss me on the cheek!” He stared. “What?” he repeated, feeling the heat of yet another blush – goodness, he hadn’t blushed so much in a day – rise to his cheeks. “I learned the game from my Mother! I said, you could kiss me next time!” Jamie was curious, despite himself and waved at you to let you know he was listening. “I dare you!” Jamie smirked. Oh, his mother taught him this game, too. “Game?” you called from your window, giggling. You didn’t expect him to rise to the challenge, because boys were silly creatures, as you had decided long before. But then again, you didn’t expect his answer, either – “Game.” * * * TBC... |