Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

the Beckett Trading Company to my brothers. Perhaps I could join
them in working there?”
Jonathan Beckett began to laugh, shaking his head. “Cutler,
m’boy…won’t do. I know you write a good hand and can cipher with the
best of them, but you’ve no head for business, lad,” he said.
Cutler felt his cheeks flush, and damned himself for this betraying
sign. He’s wrong. I do have a head for business.
“So you’d like to see the world, eh?” Jonathan Beckett said.
Languidly he polished his small, square-lensed reading spectacles.
“Well, Cutler, if you were Jonathan Junior, or Bartholomew, strong, tall,
strapping lads, I could purchase you a good commission in the service
of the king.” His gaze traveled up and down his youngest son’s short,
slight frame. “But I think you’ll agree that that’s not a practical idea,
Cutler.”
The young man’s flush deepened. His father had never forgiven
him for not being tall and strong. It didn’t matter how smart he was—
and he knew for a fact he could reason rings around either of his
brothers—all this wretched man sitting before him could see was his
size and lack of brute muscle. He can go to Hades, Cutler thought,
setting his jaw.
“You show no kinship to the land…never could induce you to ride
to hounds with us, could I? No, you stayed home with your sister, Jane.
For all I know, you both played with her dollies.” He chuckled aloud.
“Don’t look so affronted, boy. I’m just having a little joke. You have no
sense of humor, I swan.” The elder Beckett laid down his spectacles
on the desk, and huffed an exasperated sigh. “So it’s not as though I
could have you managing my tenant farms or the gristmills, either, is
it?”
Cutler couldn’t manage a civil reply, so he merely shook his head.
“At any rate, I was prepared for this,” Jonathan continued. “I knew
bloody well you wouldn’t be able to think of something suitable and
practical, so I’ve figured it out for you, son.” He took a paper out of his
desk. “I’ve made an…investment…”
He means a bribe, Cutler thought.
“An investment in a nice little vicarage for you, Cutler. You’ll be a
parson, and I can’t think of any life more suitable for you. I mean, you