Scars

It had been her first job, ever. She had been a twelve-year-old scullery maid in a house in Jamaica, and had been sold into it by her drunken and destitute father. Her name had been Margaret, then. Or Maggie. Or anything, including “worthless” and “useless”. Anything her father felt like calling her. Going to work somewhere else had seemed like an escape.

She had been out in the back of the house with a huge cauldron of gently boiling tablecloths, singing to pass the time and minding the fire under the cauldron, when the estate’s overseer came through and decided to have a bit of “fun” with her. It had ended with him clawed about the face, and with her savagely beaten. When she had struggled against the beating, he had raped her and, as a final means of teaching her her place, had taken the boiling laundry and doused her with it. Her back had taken the worst of it. From that day, she would not sing if there was any chance she could be overheard, and she would not let anyone else decide her fate. The overseer had drunk himself to death within three months of her rape, and the burns had taken almost that long to stop hurting.

When she had been sold on as a chambermaid three years later, she had started on the path that had led her away from service in great houses and had led, eventually, to Tortuga and to the tavern, which was new enough to need serving maids and far enough from gentility to let her make her own life and choose her own name.

“What the bloody hell?” Jack couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he said that. Anna wasn’t wearing a corset, so that couldn’t have been the reason her head was now resting against his chest and her face was completely white. Although the corset incident had ultimately led to a fair bit of fun, and rum, and treasure--”Not the issue here, Jack lad. Get to the point,” He shifted his grip on her and eased her to the ground, with her head in his lap. Shortly after that, she stirred, and some of the color returned to her face. When she opened her eyes again, they very nearly made Jack choke. From a distance of less than a foot, they were overpowering. “Not now, lad. You’ll get to it”, he thought, and broke off that train of thought.

“Now, what the devil was all that about, luv?” The focus came back into her eyes as the color returned to her face. She gasped to find herself lying on the ground, again, but she still seemed to be clothed, so that was good. And the black gaze she met when she looked up seemed to be genuinely concerned.

“I…” She tried to sit up and was met with a momentary wave of dizziness. Jack propped her up partway with a hand on her back and she tried speaking again. “I can’t sing in front of anybody. I told you.”

“And you faint every time y’ think about it?” Jack raised one eyebrow. “No wonder y’ can’t make a living at it. But how in hell d’you manage to do it alone, then?”

“I…as long as I’m alone, it’s fine. But if anyone can hear me, I…it’s not safe.”

“Not safe? What’s that got to do with it? Unless y’re worried about attracting every man with an ear for a tune within two streets of here?” Incredible. That was it. She was going to cry again, and he’d meant it as a joke. “Oh bloody hell. I meant--” But it was too late, and the tears spilled over. Silent sobs racked her and she hid her face from him.

Egomaniac though he was, Jack recognized the need for comforting when he saw it. He gathered Anna in gently and let her cry on him until the sobs subsided and left her drained. She went to blow her nose on her sleeve, but he produced a handkerchief from somewhere and gave it to her.

“Better?” She nodded shakily. “What happened? Somebody you were singin’ for hurt you?”

“N…no. I was singing for myself and he…heard me and…”

“Bloody hell.” He seemed to be saying that a lot this morning. Even though he was a pirate, he didn’t condone rape. Whores were one thing, even if you were rough with them, but rape was entirely different. “How old were you?”

“I was…I was twelve. And when he was done he…leered at me and said…I had to learn to do it right. And he took…the hot water and…it took three months for the scars to--”

“Scars is it? I got my first when I was ten. And I got the bastard back for them, too. Made me feel better to know that.”

“I couldn’t. He was the overseer. He had power over us all. And he knew it, and used it, and…” Her voice failed her again and she turned her back to him and pulled down her collar. Her back was dark red in places, and the skin was pitted like orange rind all over and looked like it had cracked and stretched in places. She wouldn’t have been able to move off her stomach for months with burns like that, and it was more than hot water. There had to have been actual fire involved somewhere, and probably nobody had ever told her.

Jack growled at the thought. He knew a fair bit about scars, having a nice collection himself. It would be a nice diversion to give some to somebody who deserved them. “The bastard’s not still here, is he?”

“No. No, he’s dead. In Jamaica. I wish I had done it. I wish he had hurt like he hurt me. I wish…but what good is it? He’s dead and I’m broken, and I can’t--”

“You will, luv. You’re stronger than you think. You survived the scarring. You were singing again, before y’knew I was there. And don’t let anyone say y’can’t sing.”

“Who’d ever know if I can? “

“Well, I know, for one, luv. And trust me, you can sing.” Jack looked her full in the face and the green gaze locked with the black. Before he could stop himself or even think about what he was doing, he had leaned forward and brushed her lips with his.