An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A pang of feminine intuition pricked Scarlett right beneath the ribs. No one had bothered to tell her that a mere month ago, the Commodore had proposed to this very Elizabeth; that his engagement had been dissolved amidst a deafening scandal; and that she, Scarlett Marie Huntingdon, had been brought to this cursed island as nothing more than a beautiful shield for the Commodore's lacerated pride. Such matters were kept strictly quiet in polite society.
But Scarlett drew her own conclusions. In the aristocratic circles of the South, much as in England, harboring feelings for one woman while marrying another was an ordinary, even sensible affair. Men rarely married those they secretly yearned for in garden gazebos. A wife was chosen by intellect: for convenience, for the prestige of her lineage, for the weight of her dowry, and the purity of her blood.
Such a position Scarlett could understand. And, to a certain extent, even forgive.
The sudden realization of her own superiority rushed through her like a draught of fine port. The blood quickened in her veins, and her natural confidence surged back to displace her wariness. James Norrington could sigh over his faded English rose all he pleased. But in the end, as a true gentleman and a clever officer, he had deemed Scarlett the far more worthy, prestigious, and advantageous match to introduce into his home as the lawful Madame Norrington.
The Southerner shot a triumphant glance at the retreating Elizabeth, then turned to her husband just as he concluded his conversation with another guest. After all, feigning the part of a tragic, suffering victim for long was entirely too exhausting for a woman of her mercurial nature.
"A splendid evening, is it not, Commodore?" Scarlett murmured, compelling her husband to face her. "I must confess, this hospitable island is beginning to grow on me."
Norrington shifted his gaze to her with a brief flash of confusion, as though he did not immediately recall who stood before him.
"I am gratified to hear it, Madame," he finally replied with an expression of courteous attentiveness. "I had feared the climate of the West Indies might prove overly severe for you after the New World. But since you find Port Royal agreeable, my mind is at ease."
Scarlett leaned in closer, peering beneath the brim of his tricorn hat.
"Oh, the climate here is indeed... hot," she let out a short, musical laugh, fluttering her fan a fraction faster than propriety dictated. "They say the nights here are quite as sultry as the days, and the sea conceals dangerous foes. I do hope that under your protection, I shall have no cause for fear?"
The Commodore placed his glass onto the tray of a passing servant and looked at his wife with such unyielding, polite benevolence, it was as if she were truly speaking of the weather.
"Madame, I dare assure you that the rumors of Jamaica’s dangers are vastly exaggerated. Fort Charles secures the harbor capably, and the Royal Navy under my command will exert every effort to guarantee your safety. As for the heat... I shall instruct the servants to draw a heavy awning over your terrace. It will shield you from the sun's rays."
The Southerner's brows twitched with annoyance. This tone of an "official notice" was beginning to irritate her. Any Southern gentleman of her acquaintance would have either flared up at the insult or accepted the challenge, pivoting seamlessly into flirtation.
"The local society is most gracious," she remarked, testing a different weapon. "Miss Swann is exceptionally courteous. What an utterly charming creature. I ought to learn the local manners from her."
Having said this, Scarlett held her breath, waiting to see the Commodore’s composure crack.
"Indubitably," he concurred, his eyes casting downward. "Miss Swann possesses an excellent upbringing. Should you require council regarding the arrangement of the residence or the selection of a fine dressmaker, I highly recommend you consult her. I am certain she will not deny you the courtesy."
Scarlett gripped her fan so fiercely the painted ribs nearly snapped. She wanted nothing more than to wound her husband with some mocking barb about the asceticism of Englishwomen and their utter inability to enjoy the pleasures of life, when she was abruptly interrupted.
"Commodore! Forgive me for intruding upon your discourse with your enchanting bride," the garrison colonel pushed his way through the throngs of guests and drew Norrington aside. "But we urgently require your counsel. Dispatches have arrived from Nassau. It appears the Black Pearl has once more entered the contraband waters south of Tortuga..."
The Commodore bowed to his wife, kissing the air above her gloved hand, and then departed after the colonel, vanishing into the sea of blue uniforms that comprised the military circle.
Scarlett remained standing by the balustrade. All around her, Port Royal chattered and laughed. Within her, however, her blood began to boil. Her husband had abandoned her on their very first evening, preferring the talk of filthy pirates to her company! Fortunately for Scarlett, Lieutenant Gillette rushed to the rescue of her feminine pride, bearing a fresh glass of champagne.
"Mrs. Norrington, if I may?" he materialized by her side so swiftly it was as though he had been staking out her solitude. "The champagne this evening is vanishing from the glasses of beautiful ladies with suspicious rapidity. Permit me to offer a replacement?"
He extended the flute, which Scarlett accepted with a grateful smile and a deliberate, fleeting brush of her fingers against his.
"Oh, you are my savior, Mr. Gillette," she sang, turning upon the poor officer all the allure her husband had so unwisely ignored. "The local heat quite drains me of my strength. Tell me, Lieutenant, is the service here truly as perilous as they claim?"
Gillette predictably flushed with self-satisfaction and immediately launched into entertaining the Southerner with tales of his naval exploits. She chatted with him enthusiastically for nearly half an hour, then with a captain of the Jamaican fleet, and later with the son of a local planter. She remembered her marriage only late into the night, when the servants began to extinguish the candles and a footman respectfully informed her that the carriage was ready and the Commodore awaited his wife at the porch.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Following a scandalous public rejection that left his pride and reputation in tatters, Commodore James Norrington needed a swift, respectable match. A wealthy widow from the Americas seemed like the perfect solution — a convenient ornament to his uniform and a beautiful shield for his broken heart.
But the Commodore miscalculated.
As Norrington spoke his vows at the altar, he had no idea he was marrying a venomous Southern magnolia instead of a gentle English rose. Furious at being a 'consolation prize', the willful Southern belle is determined to unravel her husband's meticulously ordered life — until he curses the very day he bound them in holy matrimony.
Rating: Mature
Characters: OFC x James Norrington, Lieutenant Groves, Lieutenant Gillette, Dauntless crew
Additional tags: Naval Fiction, 18th Century, Royal Navy, Slowburn, Canon Divergence
Chapter 7. «Broken Needle»
Darkness crept across the cabin walls like black mold. The guttering glow of candles illuminated only the dining table, upon which a map of the Caribbean lay crucified. Four pewter weights pinned the parchment's edges, keeping it from curling as seven officers hunched over the outlines of the Lesser Antilles.
"Destroyed?" Lieutenant Eckland asked as the Commodore finished his report. "Are you saying, sir, that the vessel went down with all her cargo?"
"Precisely, Lieutenant," Norrington marked a cross, crowning the grave of the Venture. "There is every reason to believe Jack Sparrow is behind this."
A murmur rippled through the cabin — the low hum that precedes a bloody harvest of prize money. Every officer was already calculating his percentage of the captured Pearl, ascending a rung higher in the naval lists.
"Begging your pardon, sir," Lieutenant Hawkley, though shouldered aside by his seniors, forced his way forward. "The northwest sector is a labyrinth of currents and shoals. If we alter course and find nothing, we lose the weather gauge, an advantage the pirate will surely use to slip away into the reefs."
"If he is even leaving," Lieutenant Boswell interjected. The oldest man in the cabin, Norrington included, he leaned toward the map, the candlelight catching the web of broken capillaries across his face. "A predator does not abandon his grounds while there is still meat upon the bones."
His finger jabbed at the portolan chart, tracing a line.
"These currents... they carry wreckage exactly to where we found it. If the lady says they were pinned against Tobago, then the scoundrel was cutting across from the Windward Islands. I’ll wager he’s still there, waiting for us to pass him by. I’d bet my year’s pay — which I haven’t got, mind you — that those black sails are looming just beyond that very horizon."
Boswell would have spat upon the deck to seal his words, had the Commodore not been present.
"It is mere conjecture, based on the word of... a woman," Lieutenant Bligh sneered. "We will lose our way."
"We will lose our prize!"
The argument was inevitable — the logic of the Naval Code clashing with the greed of sea dogs. Some feared an Admiralty reprimand for the delay; others saw the passenger’s tale as their only chance to strike a rich haul. Only Gillette and Groves maintained a refined neutrality, refusing to join the squabble of the junior ranks. Norrington loathed this moment: when he was forced to trust the instincts of an old drunkard over the sobriety of a youth who had received his commission a mere five months ago.
"A sixty-mile diversion is two days of tacking with the current south-wester," Bligh stated. "If we are wrong, the Admiralty will demand an account for the wasted stores and lost time."
"And if we lose the enemy," Boswell spat, "the Admiralty will ask why they bothered giving us a First-Rate at all!"
"Enough."
The pack fell silent at once, awaiting the command. Norrington set the alidade against the compass rose, calculating the bearing.
"Mr. Hawkley is correct," he said. "We risk time by following Mr. Boswell’s counsel. But we risk the honor of the Fleet by ignoring a pirate in our waters. None present would wish to justify an excess of caution before a court-martial. That would be... unfavorable for your careers, gentlemen."
He knew where to strike. Now even the most prudent officers were forced to agree — none wanted to disgrace the uniform with what the Admiralty, in the event of failure, would label "cowardice."
"Lieutenant Boswell, pass the word to the fo'c'sle. Course northwest. Prepare to wear ship. If we do not encounter the Pearl, we shall at least burn that nest of privateers to the waterline."
"Aye, sir."
Snatching up their tricorns, the lieutenants filed toward the door. Only Groves and Gillette remained at the table, their rank affording them the privilege of speaking with the Commodore in private.
The Admiral’s cabin, designed to accommodate an entire squadron of captains, sat hollow and vast. At the dining table, which could seat at least eight, there stood now only two chairs, separated by seven feet of tablecloth.
At the rustle of skirts, the Commodore turned. He recognized the cambric at the neckline faster than he recognized the woman wearing it. His fingers tightened around the wood.
"Miss, I pray you," Norrington pulled out the chair, inviting his guest into the circle of light. She took her seat, and the flames illuminated the scarlet waves of the uniform, clinging to curves for which it was never intended.
The table groaned under a luxury bordering on extravagance for a ship three weeks out of sight of land: succulent meats, thick slices of fresh bread, a bottle of claret. Silverware bearing the naval monogram was laid out beside porcelain plates according to every statute of etiquette.
"The weather has grown more merciful toward evening," the Commodore began. "How do you find your health, Miss Enfield? I trust the rolling of the ship does not distress you overmuch?"
"I thank you, Commodore. The ocean is surprisingly compliant today," she replied, unerringly selecting the correct fork for the appetizers.
Norrington observed. The position of her elbows, the tilt of her head, the confident and natural ease with which her fingers handled the heavy silver. Pretenders always have a moment of hesitation when they consult the rules in their mind. Miss Enfield had none.
"Trusting in its compliance ruins captains more often than storms," he remarked. "Nevertheless, you bear yourself with enviable grace."
Mether wordlessly filled the glasses. His presence transformed the dinner into a formal reception, where both parties understood that the servant heard every confidence, despite his pretense of being part of the furnishings. But when he retreated for the next course, the diners gained a few minutes for confession.
"You found my library," Norrington said as soon as the steward left them alone. "Judging by the bookmark, you preferred Voltaire to navigation charts."
"The *Lettres philosophiques* force one to ask questions that navigation prefers to ignore," Marilyn took a sip from her glass, her lips turning a defiant red. "A rare book for an officer so devoted to order."
"Do you believe that order precludes curiosity?"
"His reasoning, that doubt is not always a weakness, but sometimes a sign of common sense, would seem dangerous for a man of your temperament. Does the Code not require you to believe in the infallibility of orders?"
"The Code requires execution. Belief... I leave to the chaplains."
Mether’s reappearance caught them both unawares. As the servant placed a plate of cheeses upon the table, the Commodore changed his weapon.
"Mais seriez-vous d’accord que la raison est souvent l’esclave des passions?" he asked without warning.
"Dans ce cas, Monsieur, la passion de survivre est la seule raison qui me reste," — Marilyn replied. "Et vous, commandant? Quelle passion vous pousse à déchirer l'océan au lieu de jouir de la paix à terre?"
Norrington smiled, conceding her victory in this duel.
"Le devoir, mademoiselle. Excuse me. My French is quite unsuited for polite conversation. I learned it in captivity, which leaves a certain... rather coarse imprint on one’s vocabulary."
The woman licked the wine from her lips.
"Captivity teaches one to value words differently, does it not?" she asked, savoring the tartness.
The rolling of the ship shifted the candlelight, and the shadows lengthened, intersecting across the tablecloth. A silence fell, one which neither the Commodore nor his guest was in any hurry to break.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapter summary: After being rescued from the wreckage of her world, Marilyn finds herself in the lion's den — the Great Cabin of Commodore Norrington. Caught between the lingering haze of laudanum and the sharp reality of 1747, she must navigate an interrogation with a man whose rigid adherence to the gentleman’s code is both her shield and her greatest threat. As Norrington attempts to link her mysterious appearance to his relentless pursuit of Jack Sparrow, Marilyn weaves a fragile web of lies. In a high-stakes psychological duel, she plays the part of a grieving lady to mask the truth, all while discovering that the Commodore carries his own ghosts from Port Royal.
Commodore Norrington knocked thrice, giving the guest a moment to collect the remnants of her dignity, and only then — receiving no objection — entered the cabin. He had been prepared for anything: a fresh bout of hysterics, the hollow apathy of a laudanum daze, or a display of frailty demanding his sympathy. But his expectations, as had often been the case of late, went unfulfilled.
The woman received him seated on the edge of the bed, turned half toward the window. She was wearing the scarlet coat he had ordered issued from the infantry stores, but which had — against all logic — failed to make her look absurd. On the contrary, it concealed the lace undergarments that had caused the man such embarrassment, and gave her figure the severity of a young recruit turned out for inspection. When the Commodore entered, she did not rise. In 1747 women did not rise even at the entry of a superior officer. That was a man's privilege — to stand before her.
"Madam," he said, with the excess of formality behind which men of his cast conceal awkwardness. "I am glad to find you have strength enough to be up."
"Commodore," Marilyn returned the greeting. Her gaze held none of the recent wildness, though deep in it the embers of her recent humiliation still glowed: "I must thank you for your care. My wrist still bears the memory of your grand gesture."
The Commodore flinched, barely perceptibly. The reminder of the coercion pricked his conscience, but Norrington merely shifted his gaze to the folds of the curtain.
"In a state of spiritual agitation, one is often prone to actions they later regret," he explained. "My intent was to shield you from further distress. And, I dare say, from yourself."
He crossed to the secretaire and set down his cocked hat. He did not sit, preferring to maintain his advantage in height.
He crossed to the secretaire and set down his cocked hat. He did not sit, preferring to maintain his advantage in height.
"I see Mether has attended to your supper," he returned to the safe harbor of polite conversation. "I hope the cabin is warm enough? Nights in these latitudes can be treacherous, despite the heat of the day."
"I thank you, Commodore. The warmth of the uniform is quite sufficient."
Norrington narrowed his eyes slightly. The phrasing was impeccable, yet in a woman's mouth it acquired something not entirely becoming. Involuntarily he found himself looking again at her short curls, which in the light of the setting sun shone with a counterfeit gold.
"An infantryman's coat is a poor substitute for a gown," he remarked. "But I fear it is the best a warship can offer a lady in distress."
The safe harbor was exhausted. Norrington paused, studying the waves beyond the window. He cleared his throat.
“I do not wish to weary you with long inquiries, madam. You have suffered a grievous shock,” he began. “However, we are sixty miles off Tobago, and these waters are presently troubled. French privateers, Spanish corsairs, pirates… It is my duty to ensure your safety. But to understand how best to assist you and where to send word of your rescue, I must clarify certain circumstances.”
He turned to face her fully, looking down.
"Of course, sir." Marilyn held the brief duel. А fraction longer than a lady might have allowed herself, a fraction less than she would have allowed herself on her own terms. “I am prepared to answer your questions. As far as my memory serves.”
***
Chapters: 6/?
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: James Norrington/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Lieutenant Groves, Lieutenant Gillette, "Dauntless" crew
Additional Tags: World War II, 18th Century, Time Travel, The Royal Navy, Historical Accuracy, Psychological Warfare, Identity Secrecy, Post-Traumatic Stress, Period Typical Sexism (challenged), Hurt/Comfort, Interrogation, World War II Flashbacks
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 5/?
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: James Norrington/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Lieutenant Groves, Lieutenant Gillette, "Dauntless" crew
Additional Tags: World War II, 18th Century, Time Travel, 1940s, The Royal Navy, Canon Rewrite, Canon
Summary:
Marilyn, a frontline nurse, is no stranger to military discipline and the thunder of cannons. But when a shipwreck in the Caribbean hurls her from the fires of World War II straight into the year 1747, she finds herself in a world far more perilous than any battlefield. Rescued by the crew of HMS Dauntless, she is trapped between accusations of espionage and the harsh prejudices of the 18th century. To survive, Marilyn must navigate a landscape of superstitious sailors and rigid aristocrats—all while trying to reach the heart of Commodore James Norrington, a man whose notions of honor and duty stand between them more firmly than two hundred years of history.
[This work is a free translation of my fanfiction. I am NOT a historian, NOT a translator, NOT even an English speaker. So I ask you to forgive my historical, linguistic, and spelling mistakes. After all, Pirates of the Caribbean is far from a historical film either]
WARNING:
> This is NOT a swashbuckling pirate adventure. This is a story about the HMS Dauntless, its officers, and its crew. It’s a tribute to the men in the red and blue coats — James Norrington, Lt. Groves, Gillette and those who serve under them.
>This work leans heavily into historical fiction and drama. It explores the clash between the 20th-century mindset and the 18th-century Age of Enlightenment.
>Theme: A study of Duty and Honor as forces that stand higher than the lure of "freedom." It is a tale of discipline, sacrifice, and the heavy burden of the Crown.
> Medical Detail: As the protagonist is a WWII nurse, expect graphic descriptions of period-accurate medicine, surgical procedures, and the harsh limitations of 1747 science.
>Beyond the Main Trio: The narrative does not follow Jack Sparrow, Elizabeth Swann, or Will Turner.
> Slow Burn & Classism: A romance hindered not by misunderstandings, but by the rigid social structures and prejudices of the time.
EXPECT:
⚓ Maritime lore and shipboard life
⚓ The heavy atmosphere of a world at war (both in 1943 and 1747)
⚓ Golden Age of Piracy through the eyes of the Law
⚓ Historical accuracy (Master and Commander style)
⚓ Focus on the discipline, routine, and brutal beauty of the Royal Navy
⚓ Complex character studies and slow-burn tension
⚓ Classism, sexism, and the unforgiving nature of the British Admiralty
⚓ A realistic portrayal of James Norrington as a man of his time — rigid, dutiful, and complex
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