An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Burden of the Captain (F/M, Fitzconte, Explicit)
Right under the wire in my time zone for @lieutenantfest’s Le Vesconte day, and for @dundybingo2026’s prompt “Praise Kink (Fitzconte x Canon Era)! Mind the tags, and prepare for lots and lots of Victorian undressing.
Dundy Bingo “Canon Era” graphic by @thesilliestpotato.
@wandererseas your jfj piece, 'lady of the seas' was so beautiful, i simply had to write something for it--even if it is a rather loose interpretation of your brilliant work! i'd love to turn this into a full blown fic when I have time, but for now, pls have these 1.4k words of james as a captain's wife- (cw for a brief suicide reference)
Standing in their garden in the sunshine, it is hard to remember that there was once a time Francis used to mourn every second on dry land. That is how Sofia had put it. Deny it as Francis may have done at the time, she had a point; Francis had come to recognise that even before he found his way back to James, all those years ago.
He smiles at James.
“Your flowers are nearly as lovely as you are.”
James gives him a dismissive wave. “You flatter, Francis,” she says, but the pleased little smile that graces her lips tells him that the compliment is well received. James likes to be cherished, even when he is a man, but doubly so as a wife. As she should be—cherishing James is the greatest honour Francis has known.
The flowers are lovely, too. Roses and white lilies and marigolds, each in full bloom. He gently takes a white rose between his fingers and he is not disappointed when he brings it to his nose; it smells wonderful. Birds are twittering in the trees and the bushes, and Francis’ heart squeezes at the sight of James standing in the middle of the garden she has cultivated, her cheeks pink with a delicate blush in the sunshine, looking perfectly at ease. He rarely gets to come home in the spring—or the summer.
The joy spills out of him in a huff of breath like water from an over-full cup.
“Oh, who knew?”
“That roses could be scented?” comes the sly reply. All these years and James has not lost a modicum of her wit.
Francis tuts at her with equal playfulness.
“No, it is the weather I speak of. Not a cloud in sight.” He raises his face towards the sun, momentarily closing his eyes to bask in its warmth, before he turns to James again. “I do not remember the last time we weren’t plagued by storms or howling winds or frost.” James takes his arm and together they start to stroll through the garden, towards the bench under the willow tree, the long branches of which are swaying gently in the breeze. Francis chuckles at a memory. “Remember that time I came home and the bloody sea was frozen over?”
Their home sits perched on a cliff, and there was nothing but ice as far as the eye could see, then. James had built a roaring fire and held Francis to his bosom, rubbing his arms, and still Francis would not stop shivering.
“That one was rather your fault,” James says, with little sympathy. “A captain of your experience should know better than to fall into a crevasse.”
Honestly, Francis thinks. He reminds, kindly, helpfully,
“You were equally happy to see me, as I recall.”
James stops, however. He turns to Francis, her eyebrows two perfect arches in her forehead as thunder booms across the heavens above.
“Very well,” Francis concedes. Speak of a message received, loud and clear. “I shall not push my good luck.”
“You are ever so wise,” James replies as they start walking again.
When they reach the bench, they sit as closely together as they can. Francis wraps his arm around James’ currently rather slender shoulders, and with a content sigh, James drops her head to rest against Francis’ chest. It is perhaps the touch they miss more than all else when they are apart, the touch that grounds them, reminds them both that they are real. By necessity, Francis’ visits are few and far in between.
He presses a kiss onto James’ hair. There is much to say and he wonders where to start.
“James’ eldest is engaged to be married. A love match, an upstanding young man from a good family, but he does not know how to swim.”
The groom-to-be is from Birmingham and has not so much stepped foot on a beach in his life. James—his other James—had come to him distraught, as if the concept that such a thing could be possible, let alone be desirous of his daughter’s hand, was too awful for a mortal mind to comprehend.
James laughs, the sound a brilliant rumble that echoes through his own chest.
“Yes, I know.”
She surprises him still.
“You do?”
“Elisabeth Ross told me all about it. She was here.”
Oh. Francis cannot help but blink rapidly at the name, a string pulling at his ribs.
“Yes, Francis, she is well,” James says warmly, hearing his question before he has the chance to voice it.
“Is she-? She is too young to be on her own.”
Only eighteen. Far, far too young. But here too James reassures him.
“No, she came to me with her companion, in fact. I was happy to host them both.”
“That’s a relief.” Francis exhales. “Her grandmother? She doted on Elisabeth.”
James laughs again, deeper and for longer this time. Francis pokes her shoulder—whatever has amused his beloved so, he too would like to know, thank you very much. At long last, James stops laughing and indulges him.
“Her companion was altogether closer to Elisabeth in age than her grandmother.”
This appears to be all she is willing to say on the matter, however; she is in fact waiting for Francis to catch up and divine the true meaning of her words. Who could it be, Francis thinks for a moment, racking his brain, before he gasps.
“The maid? Oh, what was her name, Caroline?”
Caroline who was so overcome with grief that she slit her own wrists, foisting further shock upon a household already in mourning.
He has pleased his wife, who declares,
“The very one.”
Briefly, Francis turns his gaze to his left, to the sea glimmering in the late morning sun.
“Hang on. I thought there were no servants here.”
Every day they make their own dinner, lunch and breakfast, and the eggs burn if one gets distracted by certain other activities and leaves the stove unattended—and even catch on fire.
James is grinning from ear to ear, Francis can hear it in her voice.
“Their relationship is of a far more equitable nature than one of a servant and her mistress, I believe—which might also explain why they came to me and not to Elisabeth’s grandmother.”
Francis lets out another gasp, he cannot help it. Elisabeth and her maid, right under the noses of not only Francis but her family? And now reunited here, despite what Caroline has done?
James shifts a little under his arm.
“Need I remind that you make home with a former officer in Her Majesty’s Navy, my sweet?”
Ah, well, when you put it like that.
Francis huffs. His darling is truly never wrong.
“Are they–”
“Yes,” she replies emphatically, before he can finish. “They are happy—they were with me for quite a while, actually. It takes a bit to settle here, when you have first arrived.”
Are you happy? Francis had asked him once, on one of his earlier visits, when Sophia’s words were fresher in his mind. I have no intention of becoming a captain’s wife; I’ve seen that life and it is not one I aspire to. He would have made James a better offer than he had to Sophia—to retire there and then and to never return to the sea. Money was not a concern. He had already seen James suffer so very terribly once, unable to ease it, to help him, except through the most final of acts.
But James only wrapped his arms behind his neck and pulled him into a kiss. Yes, he said when they broke apart ages later, a smile in his eyes that did not waver and his breath still ghosting over Francis’ skin. Now go back.
James reclines further into Francis now so that she may turn her head and look up at him, all wide, brown eyes and pink lips.
“Tell me,” she says with the most demure of sighs, “how I am more beautiful than any rose again.”
Seeing as Francis could spend an eternity doing just that, he is happy to oblige.
“Your cheeks,” he starts, brushing a knuckle over them and marvelling at their texture and warmth, “are softer than the petals of the most exquisite rose.”
He could get used to this. He thinks that every time, but he is an old man, now. He has done his bit and spring is in full bloom and as he preens James looks and feels exquisite in his arms.
If James would have him-, if Francis gets to have a say-
Until then, he has compliments to give and gorgeous lips to kiss.
