Chapter Text
The trip back to England was at once endless and all too quick. He spent the majority of it in his cabin; for the first time in his life, watching the green swells chase the blue horizon gave him no comfort. He tried to read, but even his favorite volumes brought him no surcease of sorrow. There was no balm in Gilead that could his wretched heart restore.
He started drinking a great deal more than he ought. The alcohol was the only thing he'd found to make the nightmares stop, and without the routine and responsibilities of his former position, he had no reason to abstain. He was becoming a slave to his grief, and insensibility was far preferable to consciousness.
It was late October by the time he found his way to Inverskern in Devon. He couldn't stay warm; the sweltering tropics had thinned his blood, and he shivered in the cold damp of England in the fall. He hadn't been back more than a handful of times in the two decades since he'd left (and not at all after he was stationed in Port Royal), but, for all that the town had changed, it might as well have been two days.
An extra consideration to the stage-coach driver got him dropped off at the path to the vicarage instead of at the Public House, and he went through the gate in the night. The house seemed smaller than it did in his memories, somehow. As he was bringing his trunk in the house, a round, motherly figure burst forth from the kitchen.
"Master James!" she cried out. "How good it is to see you again!" She started towards him as if to give him a hug, but remembered just in time that he was no longer the boy she'd helped raise. She bobbed a slight curtsey.
He gave her the first real smile he'd had on his face for a very long time. "And you, Mrs. Abbott… I trust you're well?"
"Fair enough… you look thin. Don't they feed you well enough in the Navy?" she asked. Another figure came forward from the kitchen. "Norrington!" James recognized Edmund Fletcher: curate of the parish, brought in a decade ago when his father's age started to make the duties of the office difficult. Mr. Fletcher reached out to shake his hand, and James reciprocated. "We're so happy you're home, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I am so sorry."
"Thank you…." The house had scarcely changed since the day he was last here. He glanced around. "I wish I could have been here in time."
"Even had there been any warning, he wouldn't have let us send for you," said Mr. Fletcher.
"No." James gave a sad smile. Admitting to illness had not been in his father's nature.
Mrs. Abbot, long used to being the practical mind in the household, took charge. "Well, let's not just stand here… come in and get yourself warmed up. Have you dined? I was just going to serve Mr. Fletcher some tea before bed, but if you'd like something more substantial…" She divested James of his hat and coat, bustled them both back into the kitchen, and made them sit down. James refused all offers of dinner, so Mrs. Abbot served out the tea and biscuits (limeflower tea and sponge-cake: his favorites of old), and glowered merrily at him until he actually ate something. He half-heartedly nibbled on the slice of cake, dipping it in the tea, just as he had as a child. The usual questions about their respective states of health and the difficulty of James' journey were brought up and disposed of.
"What happened?" James asked as soon as those formalities were done with.
Mrs. Abbott gave him a sad smile, and laid her hand on his. "It was as peaceful an end as you could have asked for. He went to bed, as usual, and slipped away in the night. We should all be so fortunate, when our time comes…"
James nodded. That was something, at least. "I'm glad."
Fletcher cleared his throat. "There must've been over two hundred people at the funeral… a few came from as far as Barnstaple. He will be sorely missed."
"Lord and Lady Leynham came down to pay their respects."
"Yes… Lord Leynham gave a very touching eulogy. He was quite overcome… I have never seen him so affected," said Fletcher.
James wasn't surprised: his father had tutored Robert, Baron Leynham back when his lordship was a young man preparing for Cambridge, and they'd been friends ever since. James' heart ached. "A fitting tribute…" he said, finally.
"Nothing more than your father deserved, and he has gone on to his eternal reward in Heaven. As much as we shall all feel his loss, you more than any of us, there is more to celebrate than to mourn on this occasion."
Still speaking in sermons, I see… thought James, somewhat unkindly. The man meant well. His father had thought very highly of him, even if he did tend a bit towards the pompous. "Just so," was all James could think of to say.
Mrs. Abbot, for her part, was determined to keep James' first night home from becoming too lachrymose. "Oh, and how could we forget! Congratulations are in order!"
They were? Oh God, he hadn't written about…
"Your young lady! You'll have to bring the future Mrs. Norrington here to meet us! We were overjoyed to hear the news… your father, he said to me, he said, 'Mrs. Abbott, my life is complete. My son will have a family of his own. I need nothing more in this world to make me perfectly happy.'"
He toyed with his teacup. How to say this? "She chose… that is to say, we decided that we would no longer suit."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Abbott, and her hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry… I didn't know."
"How were you to know? I hadn't told you…" He stared at the cup in his hands.
"She jilted you? That ungrateful hussy!" Mrs. Abbott continued.
Dr. Fletcher saw the anguish in James' eyes, and attempted to change the subject. "How long is your furlough? I hope you will have time for a good, long visit…"
James clenched his jaw for a moment. It wasn't like he could have avoided telling them forever. "I've resigned my commission." he said flatly.
They stared at James, dumbfounded, as if he'd just declared that the sky was green or that elephants could fly.
"But why?" Mrs. Abbott asked.
"The Dauntless sank due my negligence… We were in pursuit of a pirate, and I failed to heed the warnings of a hurricane. The ship and all hands were lost." he said. He stared down at the table, sitting motionlessly.
"But it was a storm that did the sinking!" exclaimed Mrs. Abbott. "That can't be laid at your feet."
"Yes! Surely you must have had some appeal…" Mr. Fletcher said quietly.
"I did not." He kept his voice clear of frustration; it was very hard to make the landlocked understand these things. "It was resign, or be cashiered in disgrace."
There was a stunned silence around the table, as words suddenly felt inadequate.
Mrs. Abbot spoke first. "You've had a time of it, haven't you."
James said nothing.
Fletcher cleared his throat. "Your father had many good readings on times of tragedy – "
"I remember them well." He cut the man off. "Do forgive me, but I really am quite tired…"
This appeal found its mark, and Mrs. Abbott stood up. "Oh, you must be exhausted. Come upstairs, I have your old room all set up for you…"
James settled into the room he had lived in as a boy, and utterly failed to get more than a couple of hours' sleep.
Edward Norrington, D.D. was possessed of a quiet, gentle faith that came to him as easily as rain falls from the sky, and an uncanny knack for saying precisely the right thing at exactly the right moment. For all his idealism, he instinctively knew that the world could be as difficult and complicated as his ivory tower was calm and peaceful, and reacted to people's faults and failures accordingly. He understood that the straight and narrow was not an easy path for some, and devoted his life to helping, truly helping, his fellow man stay on it.
He'd never expected to have a wife or a family, but the pretty, green eyes of Miss Alice Beniston had changed his mind, and, at the ripe old age of fifty-four, he found himself to be a father. He'd hoped his son would follow him into the Church, but saw very early on that the boy was ill-suited to the contemplative life. If he felt regret for that circumstance, it passed quickly, and he took great joy in watching a spirit so different from his own unfold.
Alice Norrington died in childbirth when her young son was but two years old, and the baby girl she bore passed a few days later. For a time, this took the serenity from Dr. Norrington's eyes and made his step heavy and somber, but he trusted in his God, and his faith revived him. He asked his widowed sister, a Mrs. Dora Crowley, to live with them and help raise the boy. She did so gladly: she'd desperately wanted to have children of her own, but had been unable and so she became mother in all but name to young James. Her late husband had been a post-captain stationed in Plymouth and she told James tales of his uncle and the sea. They were semi-fictionalized accounts of the Captain's honor and glory and bravery, and the growing boy listened raptly.
He went to the grave, as he knew he must, that next morning after breakfast. The weather was cold and grey and the skies spat down a half-hearted drizzle, as befitting the occasion. He went directly to the plot. The grass had begun to grow across the turned dirt before autumn had set in. Fletcher was right: he ought not to mourn immoderately. His father had had almost two decades more than the allotted three-score-and-ten, and had died peacefully in his own bed. A man could hardly ask for more than that.
He stood in front of the graves, a forlorn, damp figure, as cold and stony as the monuments that surrounded him. There lay his father and his aunt, alongside the mother and sister he couldn't even remember. He was literally the last man standing. The finality of it overwhelmed him: everyone that had shared the simpler days of his youth was gone. Intellectually, of course, he had always known that this was how it would be. James was certainly not the first person whose mother and sibling never arose from child-bed; his aunt was his father's elder sister, and Dr. Norrington was already an old man by the time his son was born.
But there was a world of difference between knowing that this day would come, and actually standing, alone, before the graves of his family.
His father had been kind, if a bit distant - an affectionate man, but in his own way. James' memories of him mostly revolved around lessons in his study; even if Dr. Norrington had been a younger man, a room stuffed with books and papers was his natural habitat. James hadn't been a studious boy by nature, but he'd worked hard at his lessons to please his father, and a love of learning had developed over time. On the day James asked his father to let him go into the Navy, his father had only said, "Comport yourself honorably, and to the best of your abilities, and I shall be proud of you no matter your profession."
What would the old scholar think of him now?
The rain started to pour down in earnest, and James took shelter in the church. He took a seat in a back pew and looked around. It was another place that hadn't changed one bit since he'd left. He remembered now the hours spent sitting in this sanctuary. How tiresome that had been, when he was a boy! His father had expected James to set an example during the services, and would punish his son accordingly if he fidgeted or otherwise strayed. Verbally, only: he never once raised his hand. He didn't have to - it was worse than that. When young James was called to account for some childish misdeed or neglect, his father would take off his glasses, look at him sadly, and intone, "You have disappointed me, my son."
"You have disappointed me, my son."
Good Lord, he could hear him still.
The choir started up their rehearsals again, under the organist's tutelage, and the chords of a motet echoed through the sacred space. James gazed up at the stained glass. What he wouldn't give to listen one of his father's sermons just once more! But he had no right to lament, he knew. He had lost his father in the natural order of things. It had been neither unjust nor untimely. Not an illness, not an accident. It simply was.
He did not, for example, die at sea in a hurricane.
That luctiferous thought was never far from his mind, even now, and it still had the power to tie his gut in anguished knots; to make his eyes burn with tears he was unable to shed. How many children did he make fatherless through that fiasco? At least one, he said to himself, thinking of Mrs. Storrell. There was nothing even remotely fair about that.
He laid his head on the pew in front of him, gasping as that particular psychic laceration gaped open and poured anguish into his veins. Silently, but with every fiber of his being and from the depths of his soul, James Norrington prayed for forgiveness. Let there be some way out, his heart begged. Let there be an anodyne, an antidote for this pain, his spirit pleaded. Any penance he would undertake with a will. Any price, however dear, and he would pay it gladly.
But answer came there none.
"Despair is a very grave sin, James." He could hear his father's voice. "Despair is a lack of faith. You must trust in God that, in times of adversity, there is a reason for your difficulties, even if that reason isn't apparent to you." What reason could possibly be for all of this? If he was being punished for his pride and folly, why did five hundred and seven men have to drown for it? Why did Andrew and Theo have to die for it? He had the blood of his two best friends on his hands. Why hadn't he listened to them? For God's sake, why? They were his trusted lieutenants for a reason….
He sat up straight, trying to concentrate on his surroundings, on the music, on anything to pull his mind out of that vicious and all-too-familiar spiral.
Si bona suscepimus de manu Domini,
mala autem quare non sustineamus?
Dominus dedit, Dominus abstulit,
sicut Dominus placuit, ita factum est,
sit nomen Domini benedictum.
He translated automatically, as he had learned to under his father's tutelage:
If we receive good at the hand of God,
Shall we not then also endure evil?
The Lord gives, the Lord takes away:
As it pleases the Lord, so is it done,
Let the name of the Lord be blessed.
The words seemed to taunt him, as he translated from the Latin. A sharp, discordant note of rage crescendoed through the threnody in his mind. He looked at the altar, and the crucifix hanging above it, and turned his face away.
"No," was all he said, and he stalked back out into the rain.
James went down to the Public House that night, as was expected of him: for better or for worse, he was the closest thing to a luminary to come out of this village in a very long time. He knew many of the people by name, but he hadn't spent any length of time with them since he was thirteen. The comrades of his youth were men of responsibility, and family: just the sort of fogies that he and his mates despaired of, back in the day. One of his oldest friends, not much older than his suddenly-jealous self, was a married man of seventeen years' standing, and new-made grandfather into the bargain. They all wanted nothing more than to tell him about his father, and so an impromptu wake started up.
It was an ordeal beyond words.
Oh, not hearing about his father: the stories they all told about the old Vicar warmed him to the very core. They were the echoes of a life well-lived, and of a presence that would leave a gaping hole in this small world. But almost every other story started with, "And your father, he was so proud of you!" Each laughing slap on the back was another twist to the knife in his heart. "Oh, we all knew that ye didn't mention the West Indies to the Vicar, not if ye were in a hurry. He'd talk yer ear off, he would." or "Did anyone tell ye about Tommy Scuggins? Oh, that boy'll end on the gallows or in Parliament, right enough. But he figured out that he could get out of his catechism if he asked the Vicar to tell him all about pirates, or fighting the French or the Spanish. And it worked, by God, until the fourth Sunday, when yer father figured it out. Gave the scamp a right good scolding, he did, but he came in here that night and told us all about it, and laughed to beat the band at the boy's cleverness…"
It was only the easy availability of large quantities of hard liquor that made it at all bearable, and if anyone noticed the quantity he drank, well, it was common knowledge that Navy men were like that.
He awoke with a sickening throb in his head, painful enough to make him decide that the hangovers were getting worse. Then again, the ache and the nausea were, in their own way, very nearly as distracting as being inebriated, if a great deal less pleasant. He sat up, cursing the drink: he would be remiss if he didn't call on Lord Leynham today, but given his current state, he wasn't sure if that was the best of ideas. He considered crying off, but that would leave him in the house; both Mrs. Abbott and Mr. Fletcher were determined to provide all the kindness and comfort they could, but their well-meant attentions were more than he could stomach right now. He dragged himself out of bed.
The Leynham family had been linked to Inverskern since time immemorial: while their scions were probably exaggerating when they claimed that they were mentioned in the Domesday Book, it wasn't that much of a stretch. They were known as careful stewards and generous liege-lords, throwing off a black sheep every generation or so: just enough to keep the gossip interesting.
The walk to Leynham Manor cleared James' head a little, and he felt at least semi-human by the time he was shown into his lordship's study.
"James!" Lord Leynham came around from behind the desk to greet him. A short, stocky man in his fifties, the years had been quite kind to the Baron, giving him a distinguished air. "If you aren't a sight for sore eyes…"
They clasped hands. "It's good to see you as well, sir." James responded. He'd always liked Baron Leynham: the Norringtons had been frequent guests at the estate when he was younger.
"Lady Leynham and I were disconsolate at the death of your father. It felt as if we'd lost a member of our own family."
"Very kind of you. It still hardly seems real…"
"I can well imagine. How are you bearing up?"
"I… It was to be expected eventually, after all." James avoided the question.
"Are you otherwise all right?"
"What do you mean?" James asked, giving the man a quizzical look.
"You've… that is to say… I saw…" Leynham gave up. He sighed. He pulled a newspaper from the desk drawer and handed it to James.
As soon as James saw the name of the paper, he knew exactly what the Baron was getting at. Leynham's man of business brought copies of the London papers every time he came down to the estate and one of them was the Naval Gazette.
James glanced at his feet, and then back up at Leynham. "Yes. Well. There it is."
"I must say, I had to call Anna in to see if I was reading this right… you gave up your commission because of that business in the Mediterranean? What the devil happened?"
James took a deep breath, and once more launched into the story of his fall, starting with the day he proposed to Elizabeth. Leynham asked few questions, and stuck strictly to the facts rather than dwelling on any emotional reactions (much to James' relief). As a result, James found himself recounting far more of the story than he had to anyone else, even though he stuck rigidly to the official account. God only knew what Leynham would have thought if he'd started going off about Aztec-cursed pirates.
"And so you resigned?"
"I received the news about Father, and I saw no point in prolonging the inevitable. The Admiralty was less than pleased with the situation."
"Bloody bastards. You're only as good as your last cock-up…"
"So it would seem."
"What will you do now?"
Questions like that made the headaches redouble. "To tell you the unvarnished truth, I haven't the faintest notion."
Leynham's sharp gaze took in the hollows in James' face and the circles under his eyes, his bleary expression and his slumped-over demeanor. "You look terrible."
"Everyone says that. How, precisely, am I supposed to look?" James asked with some asperity.
"Don't presume to criticize those who are only concerned for your welfare."
James had the grace to look embarrassed.
Leynham looked at James thoughtfully. "My brother… had your father told you I was not the eldest son?"
"I seem to recall… he died in a hunting accident?"
"So it's commonly known. The truth of the matter was that he took his own life."
"What? Why?"
"He was with Stanhope at Brihuega… Just before Stanhope gave the order to surrender, he led his men into the thick of it, and they were ground to a powder. He was the only one to survive, and barely, at that. He couldn't live with it, d'ya see, that he'd wasted all their lives and gained nothing."
"Yes, I see where you think..."
"No, you don't see. I won't tell you not to take it so hard, or not to blame yourself. I'm not going to feed you some pap about this business being God's will and that some good will come out of it somewhere, but I will tell you that throwing your life away over it is the only way to guarantee that no good will come out of it at all, and all that it will mean is that your folly will claim one more victim."
James sat there, gobsmacked.
"You're thinking I have no right to say these things to you. But your father was my dearest friend, and I'll be damned before I let his son martyr himself to grief. Were he here, he would no doubt manage this much better than I am… I am sorry. It would seem that you've had to face more in a shorter span of time than any reasonable man should ever have to."
Words half-formed on James' lips, then vanished. He swallowed hard. "I will consider what you have said."
As if he'd sensed that that was as close to a victory as he was going to get, Leynham simply replied, "That's all I ask," and, after a pause, changed the subject. "I must say, I do feel sorry for the man who has to fill your father's shoes."
James gave a half-smile, glad to be discussing something, anything else. "Indeed. Have you decided to whom will you grant the living?"
"Fletcher's done a good job of it so far, and the people will take to him better than they would to a stranger."
James nodded. "Father would approve. He had a very good opinion of his abilities."
"I'm glad to hear you think so. Now, you take all the time you need with the house. Fletcher's not the type to cut up rough about something like that, but nevertheless..."
"Thank you. Sir, I appreciate…"
But he never got to finish his sentence. The door opened, and Lady Leynham hurried in. "James! I'm so glad I didn't miss you. I can't tell you how sorry we were about your father…"
James returned to the vicarage later that afternoon. The visit turned out to be much more enjoyable than he'd expected, after its rocky beginning; he'd stayed for nuncheon with the Leynhams, and the conversation had stuck strictly to happier topics and pleasant reminiscences.
However, as they always seemed to these days, his good spirits depressed quickly. Well. Fletcher would take his father's place. It could hardly be considered unexpected: Fletcher had been the curate for ten years, doing a good job of it, by all accounts, and Leynham wasn't the type to sell off his living to the highest bidder.
But now, James would have to add to his list of tasks the removal of all his family's personal possessions from the house: the house went with the living. When he was done here, all physical traces of the Norringtons would be gone, save for those four stones in the churchyard. It wasn't as if he could have stayed, but he hated the very idea of this irrevocable step. Nevertheless, it was his duty, and, whatever his personal feelings he wouldn't start shirking now. He'd begin with his own things in the attic, he decided, and climbed the narrow stairs to the top floor.
The question Leynham asked was nagging at him: what was he going to do now? His whole life, ever since he could remember, had been about the Navy. All that time spent studying seamanship, navigation, fighting tactics and the law and custom of the sea: these had occupied almost every waking moment of his thoughts for over twenty years – almost two-thirds of his life. And everything had seemed to be going on track, as he'd planned. He'd worked hard and excelled. Rewards had come when they were due and while it was never perfectly clear sailing, it had all made sense. Right up until Jack Sparrow dove into the water to save Elizabeth's life. Good God, if only…
His mind rebelled. He couldn't face another iteration of the litany of his mistakes, not again. He would go mad. Leynham was right.
He opened the nearest chest, and began to sift through the contents. His gaze halted on the sail of a small ship. He picked up the model and turned it around in his hands - his father had given it to him on the last birthday he spent at home. He remembered lecturing his father on the names of the parts of the ship with all the arrogance of a newly-minted thirteen-year-old, rolling his eyes as the old man confused the mainsail with the fore topsail. His aunt had even embroidered a miniature White Ensign to hang from the ensign staff. Dusty and yellowed, it fluttered there still.
The first sob caught him by surprise: it was a wracking, dry-heave of a cry that was as involuntary as it was painful. The second was expected, but no less agonizing. And then there was another. And another, until the bitterness and despondency welled out of him like the noxious, black poisons that they were. For what felt like hours, he wept openly, his head in his hands.
Eventually, this dolorous tide ebbed, and left him wrung out and aching; he could take his pulse by counting the throbs in his head. He wiped his face with his handkerchief, and drew in deep, shuddering breaths.
He went back downstairs and into the garden, to get some fresh air. The rainstorm had washed the sky clean to the point of almost preternatural clarity. The crisp breeze cooled the ache in his head and soothed his lungs. For all his physical exhaustion, he felt somewhat better: his grief and sorrow were still there, entwining his soul, but they had eased a bit, like a raging infection that has been lanced and cleaned.
He returned to the house through the kitchen.
"Oh! Master James, there you are. I'll have dinner ready in a tick. You go wash up and make yourself ready." Mrs. Abbot was pulling a loaf of bread from the oven.
"Thank you." he said, and went upstairs to his room. He washed his hands and face, and, startled by a rumble in his stomach, looked up into the glass.
He was actually hungry.