Longitude--chapter five (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: Five
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG
Characters: Beckett, OFC, Norrington
Summary: Class systems. This is one business Mother has never subscribed to.



Longitude--chapter five

Sunlight had given way to a grey mist that blanketed the chateau of the Marquis De Bedouin in damp shadows. There was little revelry within the estate, and the chateau had taken on an abandoned, neglected air, its pink hallways falsely cheerful, an invasive humidity touching the gilded gold plaster of the fireplace that Larry had inspected earlier. Large chalky pieces fell from where she had scratched its surface to shatter into clumped white powder upon the hearth.

The sole occupant of the chateau was the manservant Marcus, his posture proud as he held a medium sized black box in his right hand, his steps echoing through vast hallway that led from the front of the chateau to its rear. He was momentarily shadowed by the vast staircase as he passed it and then underneath it, the imposing structure uttering its usual creaking complaints of poorly nailed boards and a missing support beam. A set of glass doors met Marcus at the end of the hallway, and he pushed them fiercely with his free hand, only for them to remain stubbornly stuck closed. It took two of the Marquis personal menservants to open the crooked set of expensive glass panelled doors, one of whom took the black silk box from Marcus's hand, and gave his peer a formal nod of acknowledgement.

A set of chairs had been placed at the far side of the chateau, so as to give the spectators an ample view of the carnage that was about to start. Priscilla was, of course, still weeping, but she was far more restrained than earlier, out of fear that she would smudge her newly made face. She had been washed, redressed and re-powdered by her devoted maids, the dress she had chosen adorned with myriad pink and yellow ribbons, neither of which colour complemented the other. Her hair was noticeably smaller, though the wig was still far too huge in proportion to her tiny mouse's body. Her new wig consisted of a pile of golden leaves which, when matched with her huge overbite, made her look to Beckett like a beaver peering out of its dam.

Not that the surrounding company was much better, Beckett thought. Having been told they were not to have a party but were about to enjoy the spectacle of a blood-sport, the Marquis' esteemed guests assembled themselves eagerly into their chairs, tall glasses of wine toasting the macabre celebration. Beckett made a mental note of who was in attendance, and was dismayed that the crowd was almost exclusively members of the extended Bedouin family. There was no mistaking the row upon row of beady eyes and prominent front teeth that made their breeding obvious. Only two people of outside note had come to the engagement party, one of whom was a local doctor known for his weakness for opium and the other was a tall, dark, thin man with a pinched, hungry expression. He did not converse with anyone of the party, and seemed to be aloof despite being entirely in their midst.

The fact that his engagement to Priscilla had not become the social event he had thought it would be grated on Beckett's vanity. With no room for influence or discussion with others of reputable note outside of the Bedouin clan, Beckett would have been forced to spend hours smiling calmly at the hideous Priscilla and talking to the Marquis' rather dim-witted cousin Gerald of all manner of useless things--The last conversation Beckett had been forced to endure with the man lasted a good two hours, its subject being whether or not mauve and purple could be considered the same hue. So, despite the inevitable death that would result, the duel was at least a worthwhile diversion. He swirled the brandy within his tumbler and took a sip that consciously celebrated the abolishment of boredom.

Marquis Edwin De Bedouin's outline could be seen through the cloud of mist, cutting an impressive, pompous figure through the grey air as he came into clearer relief. The assembled party kept him in their sights as he approached, his servants bowing as he passed them. Beckett found himself swept up in the assembly's murmured interest, noting as well as the others that the Marquis had opted for a frosty version of purple for the colour of his velvet coat, his boots and gloves and even his wig matching perfectly. While the Marquis' relatives were awed by this example of high fashion, Beckett couldn't help but think the Marquis looked more than just a little like an underdeveloped blueberry.

He was pondering this as he brought the tumbler of brandy to his lips when Larry slid behind him and rested her chin heavily on his shoulder. "Here," she said, and shoved a clinking mess of brass trinkets into both of Beckett's pockets at the same time. "Hold onto these for me. There's a client of Mother's in 1940's Venice who has a thing for brass lion heads. I can get a hundred pounds each for them."

Her breath was sweet against Beckett's ear, a slight peppermint aroma that was not unpleasant. Despite his much better judgement, he found he was unable to tear himself from the intimate pose of her chin upon his shoulder, her lips so close and teasing against his neck, the polished brass buttons of her coat brushing lightly against his back.

"I swear, I don't know why I bothered squashing my tits down with that raw cotton gauze when it seems that to fool people around here all a girl has to do is wear a pair of pants." Her shoulders shifted behind Beckett as she pulled away, her hands clawing at the cotton shirt beneath her uniform while she crouched behind Beckett, using him as a human hedge to hide behind. "It's itching like crazy...God, I feel like Yentyl."

"No matter, your misery will be over soon enough," Beckett said, taking another sip of brandy. "It is of no small shock to me that as a seemingly intelligent being you have not yet fully grasped the gravity of your situation. The Marquis De Bedouin is going to shoot you down and kill you, so what do you intend to do about it?"

Her shoulders shrugged behind him. "Nothing," she said.

"You will simply die," Beckett said, taking a stronger gulp of brandy. He had been steadily seeking the comfort of the warm brew since his arrival at the chateau and was thus falsely cheered by it. He leant back into Larry's confidence, though from her height which was a good foot and a half taller than his own, she had to bend to hear him. "This is a foolish course for you to take, especially when I can so easily steer you from disaster. I can spare you this. They already believe you to be mad, it would be no small effort of mine to persuade the Marquis to surrender this duel to the greater honour of being charitable to the insane. I could tell him I will personally escort you to the asylum--There need be no bloodshed."

Larry's cheek was dangerously close to his own, her arm draped casually around Beckett's shoulder. "Much as I'd love to think this whole idea of yours is because you utterly adore me, I have the sneaking suspicion your motives are just a tad more selfish."

He inclined his head into the crook of her neck, going so far as to allow his breath to tease the smooth length of her throat. She did not seem to mind this intimacy, and thus encouraged, Beckett fleetingly stroked the pad of his thumb against her strong chin. "There has been a most grievous tragedy. I appear to have lost my footnote."

"Footnote," Larry repeated.

'There is only one thing worse than being considered a blight upon history," Beckett whispered. "And that is not being considered at all."

"And you think I'm the one responsible for putting you back into the books," Larry said. A low laugh escaped her, and Beckett sighed into the delicate white flesh of her throat. "Much as I'd love to help you with your five minutes of fame, Cutty, I'm afraid that's out of my jurisdiction. Even Mother can't help."

"So all is lost," Beckett said, bringing the tumbler of brandy back to his lips as he rested his rather drunken head on Larry's neck, his eyes closed against the delicious warmth her body afforded.

"Not necessarily. History is a fluid medium, it's all about how you navigate through it." She took the tumbler of brandy from Beckett's loose grasp and held it aloof in a mock toast. "Here's to hoping you don't have any communicable diseases hiding in the backwash." She downed the brandy in one gulp.

He could feel her blood rushing through her body as his cheek rested on her neck. He broke free from her touch with great reluctance, his face burning as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. "The Marquis Bedouin is an excellent marksman," he said, disappointed.

"Oh really?" Larry replied, cocking a brow. Her green eyes were lit with dancing mischief. "And just where did you learn this? From the esteemed Marquis himself?"

"Of course."

"Really, Cutty. To think I'd thought you a mere ass--You're adorably naive."

"The Marquis would not lie," Beckett insisted. "You've seen for yourself how obsessed he is with 'gentlemanly' conduct. To do so would sully his perceptions of himself."

"Ah," Larry said, moving her face close to his, so close their noses nearly touched. With the barest whisper of movement, her full, blemish free lips could so easily be upon his own. He sighed into every word she spoke. "There aren't such beautiful lies in this world than those we tell ourselves...Trust me in this, Cutty. I'm not lying when I say I'm going make your life very miserable."

"I'm counting on it," Beckett said, now fully delirious by the promise of her lips so close to his own, his eyes closed against the heady onslaught of blood that pulsed through his body as he leaned closer still, aiming to taste that luscious mouth that spoke such intoxicating madness.

"Master Larry, sir?" Marcus interrupted, the kiss Beckett had so nearly stolen lost within it. It was with some unfortunate discomfort that Beckett realised the Bedouin clan had their attention riveted on himself and Larry and had taken in the near intimacy of their conversation with shocked confusion. He sheepishly pulled away from Larry, who in the complexity of her officer's garb appeared to everyone at the party not as a vibrant, strong, and perhaps ruthless woman, but as a tall, aristocratic and clearly insane man. Only Priscilla appeared unshaken, and as she blew a kiss to Beckett with her tiny white hand, her huge teeth poking from beneath her lips like stalactites, Beckett felt his stomach churn in twisted protest. There was a serious feeling in his gut that he had somehow misplayed his hand, and the only way out of the current situation would be under the duress of death.

The Marquis approached the assigned meeting point and faced off with Larry, his beady eyes archly glaring at her down his long, crooked nose. Larry, for her part, had her hand firmly on her hip, an aura of boredom surrounding her as the Marquis bowed to his cheering relatives. "As gentlemen, we both know the rules of engagement," the Marquis announced, with theatrical flair. "We shall each take a pistol from this box." He snapped his fingers, bringing one of his nervous pair of menservants forward with the black silk box Marcus had brought in earlier. "We shall take the prescribed number of paces from one another and, upon the signal of my servant, we shall take our turns firing upon each other. To determine who shall fire first, we shall flip a coin..."

"No need," Larry cheerfully protested. "You can fire first."

A collective gasp rolled through the crowd at this gross display of arrogance. Larry inspected the pistol she had been given with bored curiosity, her bargainer's eye not seeing much of value in the carved ivory handle. "There is only one wish of mine," Larry said, frowning over a small etching on the side of her pistol. "As I have heard it from good authority that you are a very good shot, I wish to propose a further challenge..." She cast a patronising glance towards the Marquis. "That is, if you are up to it...I would hate to see you lose face due to your boasts."

"Insolent dog! I'll take any challenge!" the Marquis shouted.

"Good. Then you won't mind taking ten paces before turning, aiming and firing, instead of the accustomed three."

"If it were a hundred paces I'd still finish you!"

"Excellent, then we'll up the stakes. How about doubling it to twenty?"

"Done," the Marquis said, his beady eyes narrowed into black points. "Twenty paces it shall be."

Beckett couldn't help but hold his breath as the Marquis and Larry stood back-to-back, the Marquis' manservant diligently counting off the paces as they stepped from one another in perfect, synchronised rhythm.

"One...Two...Three...Four..."

"Idiot," Beckett muttered under his breath. "Stupid."

"Five...Six...Seven...Eight..."

"What does she hope to accomplish with something as final as death?" he brooded in his thoughts. "With such prowess as a fortune-hunter, as she insists she is, this act of nonsense is unbecoming. It makes her homely, it makes her base. She's a foolish woman with nothing but her mad vanity. The world is well rid of her."

"Ten...Eleven...Twelve..."

"So what if she has saved my life?" Beckett mused further. His certain doom lay in the sweet smile Priscilla gave him once again. "I did not ask her to do such a thing. Yet another whim on her part, another notch on the belt for her ruinous nature. Selfish creature."

"Thirteen...Fourteen...Fifteen...Sixteen..."

Larry stood in the assigned spot, her nails giving her far more concern than the distance between herself and her mortality quickly approaching. Beckett felt his mouth go dry as he thought on how she would fall, how her breast would bleed as the bullet ripped through it. He could easily see himself cradling her dying form in his arms, her easy warmth dwindling into the cold embrace of the nether-world as she slipped away from him into it. Not that such a thing would happen, of course. He would only watch as her body would be carted away to be burned or buried, his association with her outwardly healed.

"Seventeen...Eighteen..."

He'd had a second chance to save her, he thought, and he'd allowed death to claim her once more.

"Nineteen..."

How strong her shoulders were, he thought, sadly. How regal her bearing under the inevitable destruction. How full and soft were those lips he'd only been tempted to kiss, how pleasant was the gentle curve of her ample hips from her waist...

"Twenty."

The Marquis turned and fired. A direct hit made its mark.

The manservant who had been counting down the paces crumpled to the ground.

The crowd gasped and Priscilla swooned, but Larry did not return fire. To Beckett's horror she scratched at the ivory handle of the pistol and then dumped it on the ground before her in snobbish rejection. The Marquis was furious that he hadn't made his mark. He set up his pistol, aimed, and fired again. This time, the bullet grazed over the heads of the crowd to shatter a main floor window.

"I'll have my revenge!" the Marquis shouted.

"Edwin, stop!" Priscilla shrieked. "You've muwdewed the sewvant! Lord Beckett, please, make my bwother see weason!"

Another bullet whizzed above them, sending the crowd scrambling to their knees. "Edwin, please!" Beckett shouted to him. "I'll just take him back to the Endeavour and hang him!"

"Hang him and yourself too!" Marquis Edwin Bedouin exclaimed. "Nothing but misery has befallen my house since your arrival with that ship! Be gone from my sight!"

Priscilla let out a series of tortured, ear-splitting howls. She grabbed Beckett's arm, her tiny fingers digging painfully into it like needles. "Oh, Edwin, no! You cannot blame Lord Beckett! He has mewely been the instwument of that man's weckless evil!" Her death grip was firm enough to leave bruises, and Beckett pried at her vice-like fingers, pulling away in a vain hope of escape. "I won't have Edwin sepewate us!" she shrieked in melodramatic misery. "We awe to be mawwied! I will follow you on all your twavels as you take me on your ship as your bwide!"

So that was her ghastly plan, Beckett thought, in shock. He took in Priscilla's tiny black eyes, her massive beaver's teeth, her ridiculous hair and her whining, clinging insistence, and it suddenly occurred to Beckett that if he managed to get her fingers off of his arm he'd run from her, from the chateau and from this insanely shallow pool of flesh and crumbling riches as fast as his feet could carry him.

"I must do your brother's bidding," he said, doing his best to be diplomatic and not allow the relief to be heard in his voice.

"My...Revenge!" the Marquis shouted with the roar of a man who had lost his last tether to human rage and had now descended into an animal fury. He ran toward his target until he was mere inches from his enemy and, with steady hands, the Marquis aimed at Larry's chest and fired.

The gun exploded in the Marquis' hand as it backfired, completely severing his thumb. The crowd of relatives, Priscilla included, abandoned their seats to smother the Marquis with their loud, confused concern. The lone doctor in their midst picked the wayward thumb off the ground, and studied it as though he had never seen such anatomy before. "No worries," he muttered, his voice calmly slurred from his earlier intake of opium. "Just a bit of wine can cure this. Or some bloodletting. Yes. Definitely warrants a bloodletting."

Beckett was a few feet away from the crowd, his eyes wide in shock as he took in the chaotic scene of bloodied velvet and lace. Larry grabbed him forcefully by the cravat and led him to the back entrance, where Marcus was patiently waiting. "Come on," she said, her head held high, her brilliant grin lighting up the gloom of Beckett's situation. "We'll make a timely exit."

She gave Marcus a cheerful nod as they ran into the chateau, the Marquis' servant leading them to the already open front door. "Let this be a lesson for you," she said to Beckett as she quickly trotted outside. "Always be kind to your servants." She gave Marcus her most brilliant smile as he handed her a large, rolled parchment that had been tied neatly into a bundle with soft red ribbon. "They know everything about you--And that includes the quickest way to leave you to your fate." She tapped the roll of bundled parchment to her forehead in happy acknowledgement. "Thanks a million, Marcus."

He gave her a saucient wink. "It is nothing, my Lady Larry," Marcus shrewdly replied.

***

The carriage ride back to the Endeavour was blissfully uneventful. A bottle of wine had been opened by Larry, who eagerly poured two large glasses, bidding her companion to take one and enjoy it. Beckett took the goblet into his hands reluctantly, the brandy he'd had earlier sitting unwell within his stomach, his aristocratic future in equally uneasy health.

"You've ruined me," he said. He took a grimacing taste of the wine.

"Wonderful, isn't it?" Larry said, and he gave her a confused, hurt glare. "The wine, I mean. Sure, the Marquis has his own private stock, but it's nothing compared to the delights of this. If you let it melt on your tongue a little you can get a slight hint of cherry in the mix--Like an unexpected but welcome guest, you know?" She took another sip, the wine spilling onto her lips, staining them until her tongue darted out to take in the errant red dew.

Beckett remained silent for a long moment. He took her advice and tasted the wine, only to find it too sweet for his own liking. He gulped it anyway, in a vain attempt to deaden the events of the day. "How did you know?" he asked.

"Know what?"

"That the Marquis wouldn't be able to kill you. I have a suspicion this was not mere wishful thinking on your part."

"Please, I've stared down worse bastards than him. Even the Bishop Corsicas couldn't break me, him and his circa 1546 thumbscrews. Idiot. As for the Marquis De Bedouin, the facts were plainly in my favour. The man can't see." Larry cradled the goblet in her hands as though it would ward off a chill. "We bought his wine back at the market, and afterwards we took it into the town. It was obvious when we got there that the townies had a lot more money than the people at the shore, so we set up shop."

Beckett took an unhealthy gulp of the sweet wine. "Meaning?" he asked.

"We set up a kiosk," Larry said, annoyed that he wasn't getting what she was saying. "A little wine stall. A store. You'd be amazed how many people wanted a sample of the Marquis De Bedouin's very own private stock. We got six times the price we'd paid for it!"

Beckett drained his goblet. Larry helpfully topped him up.

"We made quite the profit. Enough to buy all of the ship's supplies plus the benefit of a better wine in the bargain. Which reminds me, here's the change."

She tossed a bag of money into Beckett's lap, the weight of which betraying there was more in it than what had first been given.

"Fascinating, but it doesn't explain why you aren't dead," Beckett said.

"As I've said, the Marquis De Bedouin's eyesight is not the greatest." She dangled the bottle of wine in her grip before topping her drink off. "He didn't notice the labels on the barrels were different. He's obviously partially blind. Then, of course, there's the whole issue with those horrible pistols of his. A terrible make, no resale value whatsoever because of their poor craftsmanship. The models he used were notorious for misfiring on the third round."

"The third round..." Beckett said, frowning over his glass. "But he made it to four."

Larry only slightly coughed at this, her attitude one of flippant dismissal. "Give or take, of course."

Beckett paused, his drink now untouched. "He still could have killed you," he said.

"He didn't."

"Pity."

"Now...really. You don't mean that." She regarded his brooding pout with no small amount of impatience. "Go on, get over it. I've saved your life again, if you haven't noticed. God, just imagine, can't you, your life spent with that powdery, swooning, shrieking thing." Larry scrunched her face up and puckered her upper lip, giving a good approximation of Priscilla's appearance. "Oh, my Lawd Beckett, I wish to be your bwide! I'll sail the seas with you fowever and fowever!"

"You have a rather cruel streak in your nature," Beckett observed. "Have you forgotten how deeply my reputation has been sullied thanks to you?"

"Come on, Cutty, it's not so bad." Larry untied the red ribbon that had bundled the scroll, and rolled it open, revealing the unflattering portrait of Priscilla by Goya. "Here, in case you've forgotten what you're missing. Darwin's worst nightmare. For God's sake, if nothing else, think of the children you'd have had." She choked on her own guffaw. "Think of those poor, near-sighted, buck-toothed little children..."

Beckett woefully sighed, and weighed the bag of money in his lap. "You did ruin my impending marriage to a troll, but you did make it profitable. I suppose I should afford you some forgiveness."

"That's the spirit," Larry said, winking.

"I assume your Mother will be pleased," he added.

"When I find her, yes, mostly definitely," Larry said. She held up her goblet out the carriage window, a signal of her victory glinting in the moonlight. "To all of the good fortunes that are meant to outweigh the bad," she said.

She clinked her glass with Beckett's, who in turn regarded her impish glee with practised calm. "You have never had 'bad times'," he said. "What suffering you've ever had has always been fleeting."

"Really," Larry replied.

Beckett gave her slow smile, but she did not return the gesture, opting instead to give him a stony silence that was more penetrating in its ire than a stinging slap.

"You know nothing about me," she said.

"In that, you are correct," Beckett replied, feeling the welcome return of his calm facade, a certain victory present within him that made Larry's company easier to bear. He took a long, serious gulp of his wine, noting that yes, she had been right. There was a secretive note of cherry within it, like a whisper from its past. He studied his goblet with cold admiration.

"I believe it's about time we did get to know one another better. Don't you?"