Longitude--chapter four (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: four
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG
Summary: Artistic merit. Mother makes it her business.



Longitude--chapter four

For not the first time, Lord Cutler Beckett mused on the prevalence of sunlight in his journeys as of late, his carriage bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon. He took it to be an omen of his good fortune that the sun glinted with cheerful brilliance upon the sprawling chateau of the Marquis De Bedouin, and he took out the letter he had so often read while at sea on the Endeavour, a spot of sun in pen and ink upon his other far darker dealings.

An approval for an engagement lay within his grasp, penned by the Marquis De Bedouin himself, whom Beckett had managed to secure a relationship that now afforded a first name basis. "Dearest Cutler, it is with great pleasure that I agree to the engagement of my sister to your hand..." And so on and so on, Beckett impatiently read, his future brother-in-law's ability to ramble evident as the letter described a hunting part he'd had months ago, and the virtues of a particular wine merchant's victuals. After nearly a full page of this nonsense, it was at last mentioned that Lord Beckett would be most welcome at the chateau when he pulled into port as they would be having a fancy soiree on the specified date. It was not outright spoken of in the letter, but Beckett was quite sure the invite had been made to ensure a formal announcement of his engagement to Priscilla could be made.

Leaving with the Endeavour for the past five months had been a wise decision, as it had clearly whetted an appetite for marriage. The fact that she was hideous was not a point worth dwelling on for Beckett, not when his true love was coming closer with every trot of the horse's hooves, his carriage rumbling along the lane that led to the main entrance of the chateau. The Bedouin family was the wealthiest in a region of very rich European nobles, and their political influence was solid. Though he inwardly grimaced at the thought of spending time with his new fiancee and future bride, it was but a small price to pay for such valuable social standing. Besides, her ugliness had given him a great advantage--their engagement was unlikely to have been challenged by another suitor. He still had a bit of work left to do for the East India Trading Company, and he could use this excuse for long excursions at sea and at his appointed post in India whilst she remained on shore, safely tucked away in her castle in Bedouin.

The carriage pulled up and stopped at the main entrance of the chateau, its sprawling splendour reaching across the horizon in the manner of a holy temple dedicated solely to man. Lord Cutler Beckett checked his breath by breathing on his palm and found it pleasing enough thanks to the cardamom seed he'd been chewing earlier. His face was freshly powdered, his uniform pressed and lightly spritzed with fine perfume. For all outward appearances he was not a man who had spent the last five months at sea, but was a pampered example of aristocracy, one who could easily fit into the arena of such a prominent family as the Bedouins.

The carriage door was opened for him, and he stepped out of the coach, the sun blinding him with its glorious rays, bathing the scene of his entrance in hues of brilliant yellow. The sky was a shocking blue, devoid of any clouds, the grasses that lined the estate a deep and vibrant green. And yet...There seemed to be some undefinable shadow of inconsistency about the chateau that Beckett had not expected. There was no one to greet him and announce his presence, and overall sense of abandonment by the Marquis' servants in this regard irked Beckett, making him feel neglected. No matter, he thought. Such oversights would have to be forgiven, as to do so was the mark of a true gentleman.

He knocked on the huge oak doors of the chateau's entrance, only to find to his surprise that they creaked open of their own accord, leaving just enough space for him to slip in. The calm reassurance of his pleasant carriage drive was instantly destroyed by the utter chaos that was churning within the chateau's walls. Frantic servants ran back and forth within the foyer, disappearing and reappearing from the side sitting room with stricken, panicked expressions. There was not even the courtesy of a bow at his entrance, the cause being the howling, high-pitched wailing going on within the main guest room, its caterwaul echoing throughout the chateau and into its very foundations, the pitch gaining in power the longer it stretched into the empty space of the foyer.

Uncertain, Beckett walked into the sitting room whence the wailing originated from, his ears positively smarting from its unnaturally high pitch. He was quite confused by the messy state of the room when he entered it, its occupants dishevelled, the usually spotless oak floors smeared with a black, greasy substance that had likewise found its way onto the pale blue chair in the corner, a hand-print blackly visible upon its centre cushion. Priscilla, his soon-to-be-betrothed, lay in a swoon upon a chaise, her dress torn at the heel, her hair a mess of wooden splinters and what looked to be miniature cannons poking from her head in the manner of pins on a pincushion. Her mouth was a howling circle of grief whose noise only stopped when she caught sight of her shocked fiancee in the doorway.

"Oh! My Lawd Beckett!" she cried, and wiped at the tears that lined her sallow cheeks, the powder that should have improved her complexion now smeared into uneven blotches. "Thank goodness you are here! Oh, it was howwible! Twuly howwible!"

"Evidently," Beckett replied. He winced as she tore herself from the chaise and into his arms, sticky powder from her face and black paint from the cannons in her hair smearing the clean perfection of his uniform. A horrid, foul stench wafted from her greasy countenance and burrowed its dead fish stink into Beckett's chest. He gently, and then more forcefully than was polite, pushed her away, noting with no small amount of dismay that she had left a perfect imprint of her wailing face on the centre of his blue coat.

"My poor bwother Edwin!" she moaned. "The bwutes left him in tatters!"

"Flog him! Hang him! Toss him from a cliff face!" her brother's voice wailed. The Marquis Edwin De Bedouin stormed into the sitting room with a filthy flourish, his velvet blue coat smeared black with foul smelling mud, a damp cloth held against his cheek where a fairly large bruise had formed. "You will rectify this gross assault upon my person!" the Marquis railed at Beckett. "I demand justice!"

Beckett did what he knew best in any crisis situation, which was to remain as calm and unfettered by the chaos surrounding him as possible. It had been a tactic that had proved most useful in his dealings with the undead pirate Davy Jones, and it was one that was easily enough utilised on the petty squabble the Marquis De Bedouin was involved in. "I am sure there is justice to be had, my dear Edwin." A decanter of brandy sat on a side table, being woefully neglected. He poured himself a glass, his words picked with careful precision. "But in order for such an act to be meted out, I must first be aware of the offence."

The Marquis sniffed and held his head high, a dab of mud wiped from his cheek with the last shred of his perfumed piece of lace. "I had merely visited my trusted wine merchant to obtain the proper amounts of drink for this night's festivities, only to be usurped in my efforts by some waxy-eared miscreant from the crew of your ship!" He sniffed indignantly, the shred of filthy lace clutched tight in his fist as he held it near his cheek. "He stole my wine and turned the market into a rioting mob. I would have thought that a member of the crew of the Endeavour would have much better manners than what I was forced to witness!"

Beckett took a long sip of his brandy, fully aware that all eyes were upon him in the reeking, destroyed sitting room. He could not help the small sigh of satisfaction that escaped his lips as the warm liquid coursed down his throat. Though the officer who had caused the problem had nearly sabotaged Beckett's position in the Bedouin family, he had also created an avenue within which Beckett could play the hero. The disrespect Edwin had suffered was of no matter to Beckett, he had little in that regard to offer the simpering man, and best course would be to play upon the Marquis' vanity, a tactic that had always brought success. Right now, Lord Cutler Beckett was the man with all the answers and how he responded to this crisis would be a point of recollection for generations of Bedouins to come. He hid his smile from the Marquis by taking another sip of the smooth, welcome brandy.

"I am sorry to hear of this," Beckett said. "Once found, the officer who has so grievously abused you will be dealt with most harshly."

"There shall be no other penalty but death!" the Marquis exclaimed.

"And so that shall be the order," Beckett smoothly replied. "I shall send out a warrant for his arrest immediately..."

"There is no need," the Marquis announced. "We found the miserable cad in the main square of the village not an hour ago." He impatiently snapped his fingers, his servants nervously rushing to aid him. "Bring the unworthy cur in!"

Beckett braced himself, knowing he would have to give a good performance in his dressing down of one of his officers. Not only would he coolly inform the unfortunate soul that he was to face the noose for his insolence, he would even go so far as to have him severely lashed for the Marquis' pleasure. This embarrassing turn would become Beckett's greatest achievement in the history of the Bedouin clan. He felt a pang of regret in the fact he could not spare the offending officer's life in recompense for it.

Clipped steps marked the entrance of the servants who guided the Marquis' prisoner into the sitting room. They walked ahead of the officer, who himself was strangely at ease, his sashaying gait confident as he paused at various items along the length of the hallway leading into the sitting room, a pursed assessment of a clock on the foyer mantelpiece momentarily taking his attention, only for it to be abandoned in favour of an old chair tucked into the corner, used solely for the purpose of a servant who would tend the fire. The chair had taken the offender's full concentration, his gaze shifting back to it in longing glances over his shoulder. Reluctant to leave the fascination of the chair, he placed a hand on his hip and finally abandoned his study for the sitting room, his height so great that the top of his white wig grazed the door's ornate moulding as he entered.

Beckett choked on his sip of brandy. "Larry?"

"Cutler!" Larry said, flashing him a huge, dazzling grin. "Imagine, finding you here!"

"You are familiar with this vile thing?" the Marquis furiously spat at Beckett. "You keep such base company?"

"I..."

"Of course we're familiar," Larry said, giving Cutler a mischievous wink. "You could say Cutty and I have a lot of history between us." She pushed past the Marquis, being especially careful not to let any of the foul mud he was caked in smear upon her stolen uniform, her hands sliding along the stones of the fireplace, and resting upon a brass lion's head ornament that had been fixed within it, her thumbnail teasing remnants of soot from its golden mane. "I truly have no idea what the problem is. If you're still stuck on me having 'stolen' your wine, which wasn't yours to begin with, then you can go and check the stock we were bringing back to the ship for yourself. There's nothing there from your wine merchant, we bought those barrels in town." She bit her bottom lip and pulled out a silver letter opener from inside her red coat and then proceeded to chip away at the stone around the brass lion's head. It popped out with little effort, and she put the brass ornament and the letter opener back into her pocket. "Go ahead and check for yourself," she said to him.

"He's right, sir," one of the servants who had accompanied her bravely agreed. "None of the barrels match our merchant's marks."

The servant's outspokenness did not go unpunished. The room resounded with the vicious slap the Marquis delivered to him full across the face, and the servant cowered at the prospect of further blows. "Insolence!" the Marquis shouted, his voice now feverishly high-pitched, his bottom lip quivering in rage. "You may convince my servants to lie in regards to your thievery, but there is no denying the fact that you brutally attacked my sister!"

Larry shifted uncomfortably at this, though her hand remained stubbornly on her hip. She addressed Beckett, who was fighting with all he had to keep his shock at a low ebb. "I thought her hair had trapped someone I know," Larry explained.

Priscilla was not to be outdone in her own fury. "He kept scweaming at me," Priscilla hysterically asserted, suddenly recovered from her swoon upon the chaise. "'Mother! Mother!' he cried, 'Give me back Mother you lice-widdled bitch!' OH! The foulness of it! I am tainted by his foul words!" Priscilla fell back upon the chaise in a wailing howl that nearly cracked glass with its resonance, and covered her blotchy red and yellow face with her hands. Her brother the Marquis, not to be outdone in this tragedy, competed with her noisy distress by shouting his own cries of woe over his ruined boots, his smelly sleeves, his insubordinate servants and the need for many to end in a proper hanging. Within this loud chaos, Cutler managed to pull Larry to one side and bring her into his close, whispered confidence.

"It wasn't Mother," Larry said first.

"I've gathered that," Cutler said through clenched teeth. "Are you telling me that Mother is, in fact, a ship?"

"Sort of. Well...She does have a lot of examples to draw from."

"A ship that sails in people's hair?"

"Given the right mood, who knows what Mother might do," Larry sighed. "The last time I saw her she was dry enough to fit in my pocket."

"You drowned," Beckett reminded her. "You fell into the ocean and were crushed beneath its waves."

"No, I fell into the ocean and swam back to the ship. I climbed back in through one of the cannon windows--You know, Cutty, old friend, it's quite bad manners to meet my survival with disappointment. Considering all that I've done for you, the least you can offer me is relief that I'm okay."

"Relief?" Beckett harshly whispered. The shouting behind him had become a deafening roar. "Do you dare call the ruin of my reputation a *relief*?"

"Enough of this madness!" the Marquis De Bedouin shouted, and the room fell into an angry silence. He fixed his attention on Beckett, his miserable beady eyes unforgiving. "I was fully prepared to take this scoundrel out to the market square and hang him as a base example, but since he is an old friend of yours, Lord Beckett, I am forced to behave as one gentleman to another--Regardless of how this fiend has so brutally abused the title." The Marquis sniffed, his chin held high, revealing the smudge of dirt that had dried on his neck from where the fish wife had choked him. With great flourish, he pulled a blackened, formerly white glove from his pocket and tossed it on the ground before Larry. Priscilla let out a melodramatic, ear-splitting scream and then swooned, once again, upon the chaise in a near faint.

"Oh! My bwother! No!" she cried.

"A duel," the Marquis announced. "To the death!"

Larry let out a derisive snort of laughter, both hands on her shapely hips. "Bring it on, bitch, I can take it."

Beckett coughed into his fist, as polite an interruption as he could muster given the current state of the Marquis' temper. "My dear Edwin," he dared to say, infusing his address with what he hoped would create an intimate informality. "This entire escapade is merely a project wrapped in madness. Larry has always been, as you say a...a...*cough*...gentleman, only he has suffered in his life, most grievously, to severe maladies of the mind, the extent of which has only become apparent as of late. The actions he has committed, as per your own words, while despicable they are also the acts of a simple madman. It would not be reasonable to shoot down such an unfortunate creature whose mind is not capable of understanding what it has done. Though I had felt Larry had been well enough to be trusted with minor responsibilities under my employ, he has perhaps become further unhinged by the pressures of the sea, and it would be a great act of charity on your part to merely send this unfortunate soul where he belongs..."

"To hell," the Marquis spat.

"I was thinking more along the lines of an asylum, but I imagine that analogy is quite correct," Beckett tersely replied.

"No," the Marquis insisted. "Your arguments for your friend, heartfelt as they are, spring from the fact that you are a gentleman and are thus forced to give such leeway for an old friend. I, however, am not obligated with such burdens, and as such, I can forgive you, Lord Beckett, while not offering mercy for your unfortunate associate. Marcus!" The Marquis loudly clapped his hands, and the servant he had struck earlier meekly came to his side. "My sister and I shall retire to our rooms to at least outwardly repair the damage that loathsome cretin has forced upon us. The duel shall be executed at sunset. You are to prepare the pistols."

A weeping Priscilla was led out of the room by two maids who spoke to her distress in soothing tones as they escaped with her up the grand staircase situated in the centre of the foyer. The Marquis De Bedouin followed her, accompanied by the servants whose job it had been to lay out squares of white linen on the cobblestones in the market square. The Marquis' stained boots left black footprints behind every step he took, his attendants wisely wiping them clean behind him in tandem.

Larry escaped the sitting room as well, though she had far more difficulty in shaking off Beckett, who furiously followed her. She quickly made her way past the main foyer and its massive staircase to the opposite side of the chateau, where a twin guest room lay unsullied and devoid of the stench of rotten fish. Though it was clearly a room that didn't see much use, as evidenced by the appearance of scant outdated furnishings and the storage of unused paintings against the far wall, it was still lavishly decorated in the same style as the carriage that had brought the Bedouin clan home. Gold rimmed panelling lay in gilded symmetry upon the tall walls, the white stucco ceiling a good ten feet above them. The room was awash in pale pinks and blues, with canary yellow accents, and in the centre of every gilded panel, of which there had to be about twenty, there were pale blue and pink scenes of aristocratic country living.

Larry visibly shuddered as she stood in the room's centre, oblivious to Beckett's furious presence. "Dear God," she said with shocked distaste. "It's an exploded cupcake."

"The Bedouins are the most prominent family in this region," Beckett said, feeling his ambitions insulted. "They are noted for this chateau and its splendour, and it is no small honour to be given an invitation to attend one of its soirees held within these rooms. Simply because you've stolen the uniform of an officer aboard my ship and can imitate the mannerisms of a man of quality birth does not dictate that you are the purveyor of good taste and fine arts."

Larry slid her hand along the mantelpiece, her thumbnail scratching at the gold paint of the plaster, easily crumbling it off. "Not very good workmanship," she noted. "And there's mold growing beneath the window frames, there. It's unusual to see a chateau of his era built so shabbily, but then it seems the Bedouins haven't been very kind to those of 'lesser birth', which probably includes those who worked on this construction. See that crack in the far wall, there? A missing support beam on the main floor caused that. Give this place fifty years and it'll literally crack in half."

"So now you're a freemason," Beckett sardonically observed.

"I've been in the business of learning what's valuable for quite a while, Cutty. It's good to be fully educated about what you are pursuing."

"That's Lord Cutler Beckett to you--No one calls me 'Cutty'."

Seeing nothing of value in the scant furnishings of the room, Larry set her sights on the stack of paintings placed against the far wall. Most of them were portraits of lesser family members who were long since dead and forgotten, their rosy, perfect complexions subtly covering up the fact that they all had prominent overbites which were, through some skill of the various artists, made to be appear more flattering than reality permitted. Larry frowned, pulling out one particularly large, dark image, its subject one that Beckett, unfortunately, found familiar.

She hoisted the painting up onto the fireplace mantelpiece and balanced it against the wall before stepping back to get a better view.

"I don't believe it," Larry said, breathless. "It's glorious. Just glorious!"

The painting was a darkly unflattering portrait of Priscilla, her beady eyes exaggerated into further points, her overbite grotesquely pronounced. Above her were not the usual pale blue skies and flowering branches of the other portraits, but there was a dark tempest in its stead, with massive cliff faces imposing their will upon her tiny, disfigured form. Despite the fact that this was a rendition of his future fiancee, Beckett felt his stomach churn as he took the portrait in, a sense of doom escalating the more he stared at those black, clawing cliffs.

A tea set settled onto a nearby table with a near crash, and Marcus, the abused servant who still had a nasty red welt on his cheek due to his master's blow, bowed low to Larry, his speech meek and stumbling. "Master Larry, sir...I am most apologetic but...I am afraid that portrait must be taken down at once."

"Yes, I can see why," Beckett said. "When was this commissioned, and who did the work?"

"Some unknown, sir," Marcus answered. "It was meant to be a gift, sir, on the pronouncement of your engagement to my Lady." He bowed subserviently to Beckett, who nodded in acquiescence. "The artist was since rejected from entering the Academy of Arts, sir, as we can plainly see why. He has painted my Lady in a most unflattering light."

"His name?" Beckett asked. "I should hope he was not paid for this."

"Francisco Goya, sir. And no, he wasn't, which caused quite an argument between him and the Marquis." Marcus hesitated, his hand instinctively going to where he had been dealt the blow. "And yet...If I make speak plainly, Master Larry, I am in partial agreement with you that there is...something within that painting that is quite difficult to define. It is as though...as though..." He trailed off, his voice shaking as he cast a glance in Beckett's direction.

"Don't worry about him," Larry said, waving Beckett's glare off. "Spit it out, man."

"It's as though--forgive me, Lord Beckett, sir--he is exaggerating her ugliness as a means to exalt it."

Larry closed her eyes. Her hand left her hip to be splayed wide across her chest in the vicinity of her heart. Her eyes closed as though she had just received a kiss from a teasing lover.

"Goya," she breathed. "A lost portrait,and one that depicts the encroaching darkness that pervaded his soul so deeply, until he finally spiralled into madness, painting portraits of Satan devouring his children. Ten...Twelve...No, no, we're talking Fifty...Fifty-one million..." Her breath caught in her throat, a sigh of almost obscene ecstasy escaping her lips. "And you are saying the Bedouins are throwing this out? Oh, God...If I smoked I'd need a cigarette right about now." She took the tea Marcus offered her and then grabbed him firmly by the hand. "This place is nothing but velvet Elvis, paint-by-numbers and worn yellow toile horrors. Marcus, you are the sole point of light in this dreary palace of pastel hell."

Larry paused, her grip on Marcus's arm loosening.

"Did you say this was an *engagement* gift?"

"For the announcement of Lord Beckett and my Lady Priscilla Bedouin, yes," Marcus nervously asserted.

Larry's ecstasy was instantly destroyed. Her throat made a nasty gagging sound. "You've got to be kidding me--that incestual mutation? Even if I wasn't being shallow, there's nothing in that whiny, tiny-brained personality of hers to compensate for what you'd be sleeping with every night--or even for a single night, for that matter. Dear God, Cutty, are you really that desperate?"

Beckett stood silent, his brow dark as he brooded on what Larry had just said. The sad, ugly truth of his future was evident in every black stroke of Goya's portrait of Priscilla, the damp in the room giving him a chill, the cracks in the walls seeming to open further the more he studied them. Yes, his soul sadly informed him. You are a part of this crumbling plaster. You are that man with the needy, abysmal desperation to be noticed.

"I wish you'd drowned," Beckett said to her.

"Funny, you could have fooled me the way you tried to get me off that plank."

"That was nothing more than morbid curiosity." He did his best to retain his usual cool calm, but the facade was now too worn by the truth Larry had inadvertently exposed. He was visibly shaken. "It is of no import, in any case, you will be shot dead at sundown and I will be well rid of you."

Larry gave him a winking smile as she sipped her cup of tea.

"That's just being hopeful," she said.