La Principessa

A/N: Apoplexy was the 18th century term for a stroke.


Nervous Stimulation


“You should feel lucky, Miss Swann, fifty years ago your physician would have thought that your father’s apoplexy was caused by an excess of the phlegm humor blocking the flow of animal spirits to the brain.”

Dr. Bufflehead sputters a chuckle that rapidly deteriorates into a racking cough. He fishes a wadded-up handkerchief from his breast pocket. It is a wrinkled, ratty old thing, stiff and crumbling with dry mucous. To Elizabeth, it seems to be an apt physical reflection of its owner.

Dr. Bufflehead is an older gentleman whose visage can best be described in terms of a fat, flaky pastry. From top to bottom, he is bald with a discolored pate that is constantly flaking from the shedding of sunburnt skin. Lining this pate are two wiry mounds of gray hair that stick up like tangled chaparral. His eyes are a dull gray color, and rest above two puffy, ruddy cheeks. He has no chin to speak of, as it rests on a doughy pillow of fat which substitutes for his neck. His body is over-stuffed, but with tiny toothpick limbs—like a Turkey.

When the coughing fit subsides, he stuffs the sodden rag back into his pocket.

“Thanks to advanced medical science, we now know that it was caused by over-stimulation of the nerves leading to an imbalance of bodily fluids.”

Elizabeth nods. The medical specifics give her a touch of vertigo, but she’s not concerned with the physiological aspects of her father’s apoplexy so much as what she can do for him now that it’s happened. But Dr. Bufflehead seems far more concerned with flaunting his extensive medical knowledge.

“Since his nerves are over-stimulated, the treatment is simple—we must de-stimulate them.”

It’s irrational, but she feels scandalized. The repetition of stimulate from the old man seems rather lascivious. She crosses her arms.

“How would one de-stimulate them, Doctor?” She tries to say ‘stimulate’ in as neutral a fashion as possible, but in trying to affect said neutrality, she infuses unintended emphasis on it. Great.

He smiles…lasciviously. He probably thinks stimulate is a cue. A cue signifying that she want to stimulate him—genitally. Or perhaps I’m so overly-conscious of it, that I’m imagining it.

“Well, there is of course the time-honored cure-all of…bleedings!” Like a magician, he sweeps away the bedsheet to reveal her father’s right arm. He seems rather pleased, and Elizabeth doesn’t know exactly how he expected her to react. Wow—Lacerations!

She had expected the arm to be pale and wan, like the rest of him, but it’s angry and red with three parallel incisions running from elbow to wrist. The incisions themselves are jagged, as if carved by someone with palsy, and the skin surrounding them is hot scarlet and raised. And if she’s not mistaken—Oh God.

“Doctor.”

“Yes dear.”

His over-familiarity irritates her. “That white fluid coming out of the wound. Is that, erm, normal?”

“Ah yes. That white fluid is a good thing. You see, his means that you father has developed an infection, and infection is part of the healing process.”

“Oh good. I was worried for a moment. That’s reassuring.” She doesn’t feel reassured at all, but scolds herself for doubting a trained physician.

Dr. Bufflehead sucks in a voluminous breath and sneezes a squall into his hand, then wipes a trail of mucous away with his index finger, which he then uses to probe the incisions.

“Ahh!” Governor Swann jerks awake.

For a moment, Elizabeth hopes that the sudden burst of energy indicates that he’s about to announce that his health is greatly improved, whereupon her will climb out of bed and attend to matters of state. Then he will kiss his daughters forehead and reassure her that everything is going to be perfectly fine. Hope withers as her father melts into the pillows with a weak moan.

His face is clammy and gray, like a thin layer of clay has been smudged over a skull. His mouth hangs slack open, with a white crust of dried spittle at the corners. She tries to shake the thought that he looks like a three-days dead corpse.

“Governor Swann, so good to see you awake again.” Dr. Bufflehead greets with an amiability that sounds shockingly patronizing to Elizabeth’s ears. Like he’s talking to an imbecile.

Comprehension flashes in her father’s eyes, but his lips don’t follow. They twitch, and he manages to stutter a few feeble mumbles but he doesn’t succeed in enunciating a complete word. Just cut-off “m…”s and “h…”s.

“That’s all right, Governor.” Bufflehead pats him on the shoulder. Elizabeth seethes. He is your governor, not a mental patient and you shall treat him as such. Though Elizabeth feels that it would be an affront to her father’s honor if his teen-aged daughter defends it. It would make him look weak. She quiets her bitterness.

“I was just explaining you apoplexy to your daughter, though I’m sure that this is too complicated for a young lady to understand. You know, my dear, that the first fir of apoplexy is sometimes referred to as a summons and if one survives, the second is called an execution.”

A hearty chuckle—that rapidly degrades into another coughing fit. The hard, phlegm-rattling coughs that sound like vomiting.

“Doctor, I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about this in front of my—”

“—Nonsense. The governor could use a bit of humor and anyway, my curatives have helped him to recover him splendidly.”

“You mean the bleeding.”

“Oh, there’s more to it than that. I’m a doctor, not some quack barber. In addition to the bleedings, there have been purgings, enemas and no food except weak broth. The combined effects of these treatments have led to a precipitous de-stimulation of his nerves.”

She looks down. Her father’s mewling, a rivulet of drool dribbles down his chin.

“Yes, but is it possible that you’re weakening him?”

Dr. Bufflehead ignores her and returns to his charge.

“Nuh…Nuh…Nuh…”

Elizabeth realizes he’s only sputtering with half of his mouth.

“Now, now. Don’t get over-excited. It will interfere with your cure.”

Her father struggles weakly in a delirium, thrashing with his left arm and leg, the other half of his body is lead. His eyes swing up to Elizabeth, glassed with fever.

“I-I can’t. H-he doesn’t want—“

“—Stupid girl! A pox to his wishes! I am the pre-eminent physician in Port Royal and I will not have my treatments hindered by some ignorant child, now do as I say!”

Elizabeth has the absurd urge to cry. Not because she was called a stupid girl, but because her father didn’t start at having his daughter denigrated like a street person.

Avoiding his eyes, she firmly holds down him down with her arms. She thought she’d have to climb on the bed and rest her weight on him, but the thrashing is more spasmodic than forceful. She doesn’t like the feel of him. Cold and thin with loose skin and so frail she’s afraid her weight might break him. His bones feel hollow, like shafts of straw. He’ll give her a good thrashing for it when he recovers. Her chest tightens when she considers that she may never receive that thrashing.

“That’s a good girl, now.”

She doesn’t respond. Just rivets her eyes to the floor, the room silent except for the creak of the bed as her father strains under her in spasms.

For the first time, she considers that she might soon be alone in the world. That “stupid girl” could be a mild insult compared to the disparagement she is sure to endure as soon as her belly begins to swell. Like an infection. Dr. Bufflehead could perform a simple procedure to let some air in and make it go away. But the news would travel to the entirety of Port Royal before she could even recover herself. She’s heard whispers of a gentleman who performs the same procedure at an Inn by the docks, but his discretion would come at a price and as it stands, Elizabeth has no access to her fathers accounts. It suddenly becomes harder to breathe, and she could blame her corset, but that would be terribly dishonest. At least when she’s reduced to a common whore, she’ll have Will’s bastard to love her.

She hears the staccato drip of blood into the basin, gradually increasing to a flood.

His struggling weakens to ripples, and then finally stops.

“You can let go now. He’s passed out.”

She doesn’t want to let go. She wants to shake him.

Elizabeth releases her grasp. She must have been holding him more tightly than she thought, because there are hand-shaped white areas where she had been clutching him. Absently, she notes that they’re slow to color.

Dr. Bufflehead commences another coughing fit. She won’t be shocked if he hacks his lungs out of his throat. In the throes of the whooping, he pulls a clay pipe and flit strike a light from his pocket. Between coughs, he fumbles with the strike-a-light until a spark finally catches in the bowl. He draws in a heady volume of smoke, not in one, voluminous inhalation, but in those stuttering, infantile sucks through the corner of his mouth.

“Ah,” he punctuates this with a noxious exhalation. “Much better. You know, Miss Swann, that the tobacco leaf while invigorating the lungs, is also an excellent cure for everything from the cancer to sneezing.”

He takes a series of thoughtful puffs. It sounds like bubbles bursting.

“Curiously, my dear, your father has developed a cough. Be assured though, I have doubled the purgings to treat that as well.”

“Purgings?”

“A heavy dose of mercuric chloride is administered to induce vomiting. This rids his system of impurities.”

She doesn’t know what to say, but she’s thinking she wants to vomit to rid herself of a few impurities. She looks at her belly.

“Dear, did your father experience any especial over-stimulation before his apoplexy?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you know. Was he in the throes of a thorough debauch?”

Now she’s not imagining that she’s being scandalized.

“Sir, it is inappropriate for me to speak of such things, and improperly forward of you for asking them.”

“Propriety be damned! This information may save your father’s life, so I would suggest that you volunteer it if you know it.”

Despite her well-trained reluctance, she answers, “I was the only one with him at the time.”

“Well…”

Don’t tell me that you’re going to enquire as to whether he was having a thorough debauch with me.

“Was there another disturbance? A shock to his system? An argument, perhaps?”

//+//

“It’s all right, dear. We can salvage this situation. You’ll have to spend some time in the Carolinas. You can stay in Charleston with my associate Mr. Thatcher and his wife. You remember, Mr. Thatcher from when you were a little girl?”

“The grim little man with the wooden teeth,” she giggles.

“That is not funny. You will need to learn to respect him, as he is going to help you through these…unpleasantries. After you’ve come to term, it can be disposed of and you can come home and we’ll forget that this unfortunate situation ever came to be.”

“Thank you father.”

He moves to hug her, but she jerks away.

“Until now I was unaware of the little regard in which you held Will. So long as his seeds in my body, you won’t suffer my presence, and when I’ve finally evacuated my entrails of it, you’ll throw it away like rubbish? Where? Some gloomy orphanage? A plantation? The river!?”

“Elizabeth, I am doing this for you. What do you think will happen if the town finds out? You’ll be scandalized. They won’t speak to you, they will scorn you, they will close the church doors to you and tell you that you are already damned. No man will marry you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t you know what that means? I am not getting any younger, and when I die, you can’t inherit. Since we have no relatives, the crown will absorb everything leaving you penniless. Then what will you do? No one will take you as a governess if you have a child, leaving you with one option. They may call you a whore, but I will not allow my daughter to become one.”

She wants to slap him. A verbal one will be more jarring. She reaches for something horrible to say, no matter if it’s truth or no.

“Well father, you needn’t worry about that. I’m already a whore. This isn’t Will’s child. In fact, I’m not sure whose it is—I was too busy tarting myself to every crew member of the Black Pearl, all the way from the Captain to the Bilge Bailer. I had at least forty men between my floods, and any one of them could have seeded me. Or maybe if I’m lucky, then I’ve got multiple children growing in my womb—from different fathers. I liked two at once—one in my cunt and another jammed firmly in my fundament—I was stuffed like a Christmas turkey. I’m sure it’s Jack’s though. Mother’s have an instinct for these kinds of things. Wouldn’t you love that? A pirate’s bastard for a grandchild, swilling rum, chasing wenches and shaming you. When the town knows that your spawn is so generous in her affections with pirates, you will be a pariah. They won’t speak to you, they will scorn you, they will close the church doors to you and tell you that you are already damned. Right, Father? Father…?”

His eyes aren’t on her, but they don’t seem anywhere else, then they roll to stark white. He crumbled to the floor.

Elizabeth’s heart deflates and she faints.

//+//

“No. No shock that I can recall.”

Dr. Bufflehead stares at her dubiously. She squirms like a worm one the dissection table. She has the illogical notion that she’s transparent as glass and just as fragile.

“W-what is your prognosis, sir?”

“Oh, very optimistic. A few more days of treatment, and he’ll be fit as a fiddle. Don’t worry dear, your father will be back to his old self in no time. Perhaps even healthier. Just remember, only feed him weak broth, and in my absence I need you to administer the laxatives and purgatives. Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes doctor. I’m glad to hear that he’s going to make a full recovery. Shall I show you to the door?”

“Oh, thank you.”

Blast! It was just etiquette. Normally someone is meant to say that they can find the door unassisted. Now she’s stuck listening to his prattling for at least another three minutes.

“Miss Swann, in light of recent events, I believe it prudent for you to find a suitable husband with haste.”

“Excuse me?” This isn’t because I put the wrong emphasis on stimulation is it.

“I am the pre-eminent physician in Port Royal. I make good money at my trade, and have used it to secure a small tobacco plantation in the Virginia colony. I already have ten slaves and a cozy house up there. In five years time I shall have enough money to retire and become a gentleman farmer. Suffice it to say that I shall require a wife to match my station. One who will care for me, look after the house, and bear me children whilst I am still young. That woman will be you—if you take me up on my offer immediately.”

“Why immedi—“ She doesn’t need to finish the question. He wants to marry her whilst she’s still a governor’s daughter, not some poor orphan girl. Where is the prestige in that? But he just said that her father would regain his health soon…

He’s going to die.

Well, that proposal was not only rude and highly inappropriate, but the very idea of marrying the man is repugnant. Of course she’s going to refuse…

But if she marries him quickly, and beds the old man without delay, then she might be able to pass the child off as his…maybe Dr. Bufflehead resembled Will in his younger days. Ha! He has wan gray eyes, and judging by the faded insinuations of color in the gray, was violently ginger-haired. If Elizabeth bears a child with soft brown eyes and dark hair…she can’t claim that these traits came from her. No, she’ll be turned out. Maybe forced to work in the fields with the slaves. She wonders how he makes a profit growing tobacco if he smokes it all…

“I’m sorry doctor, but I must decline.”

He sighs. “Well, we see if you change your mind in a few days’ time. Good day to you, my dear.”
She’s dizzy. Nauseous. She leans against the door feeling like her bones have melted.

He’s going to die he’s going to die he’s going TO DIE! Daddy…

Elizabeth sinks to the floor in a puddle and cries. He’s going to die and take her with him. She’s already dead, in a way. She has no access to money, and since her father isn’t going to regain his speech capabilities, he can’t tell his purser to giver her money. Not to mention that she is pregnant with a dead man’s child.

She did nothing wrong. Social convention allows for a couple to partake in their marital privileges after a formal betrothal. They were betrothed. The wedding was to be in two weeks. Certainly, if she delivered in eight and a half months, people would raise their eyebrows, but there would have been no wrongdoing. And yet now—now that he’s dead, she’s a whore.

She is a strong woman in her own right, yet law dictates that her strength be propped up by the men around her. Now that they’re gone…

She has no family in England. Her father has no living relations, thanks to being part of a prodigiously long line of only children. And her mother’s side…Her mother died when she was very young. It was the consumption. That’s why her father took the governorship in the Caribbean. He said the air was far healthier than that in England…

But he never spoke of her mother’s side of the family, and now he never will.

A male relation, any male relation. She doesn’t care if it’s a middle-aged great uncle or a teen-aged third cousin. Anyone who could save her…

--She’ll save herself.

The trinkets in the house itself are worth enough money to support her for a few years, maybe longer if she can be frugal. She’ll buy passage on a ship and go somewhere…anywhere where they won’t call her a whore as she passes on the street. Or if they do—at least she won’t understand the language they’re saying it in. And she should hurry and collect as much as will fit in a trunk, before taking from her own house becomes burglary.

Yes. She picks herself up from the floor, tremulous as a leaf caught in a breeze.

*knock* Ow! She reels. That rapping was only two inches of oak from her ear, but her head hurts as if it had been knocked on itself.

She considers not answering it. It’s probably Dr. Bufflehead come to see if her father has met his unexpected end yet. But it wouldn’t do to now answer, and it will only take a moment to brush him off as quickly as propriety will allow.

She throws the door open, and realizes that her gaze was a good six inches higher than the eyeline of that of the gentleman standing on her doorstep, and the first thing she sees is the peak of a powdered wig.

Her eyes drop, and meet the eyes of a man whom she would never wish speak to without a brace of pistols.

“Lord Beckett.”

“Elizabeth Swann.”

He brushes past her into the house, shutting the door behind him.

“I have come to petition you for marriage…That is, if you aren’t some pound a night strumpet already.”

A/N Bufflehead is a species of duck, and we all know that ducks go *quack* *quack* *quack*