Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

won’t come into London with us, to have a little fun, tumble a few
wenches, drink and gamble a bit, you prefer to bury yourself in your
books, your Latin and Greek. You live like a parson now, boy. You
might as well be one, eh?” He guffawed at his own wit.
Cutler shook his head again. He was so angry he was trembling,
but he had to try and make his father understand. “No, sir,” he
managed to force the words out. “That would not be an appropriate
profession for me. I’m not suited to it at all.”
“Of course you are!” his father insisted. “Look at yourself! You’d
make a perfect clergyman! You can write, your tutors told me, with
proper grammar and even a bit of elegance when the situation
demands. You’ll dash off those sermons in no time at all! And aside
from that, well…it’s just a round of garden parties, and balls, afternoon
teas and socials. There are always girls from good but poor families
dangling after the village vicar, you know that. You might even have
your pick!” Folding his hands on his desk, he regarded his son with a
smile and a satisfied nod, obviously very pleased with himself.
Cutler stared at him in complete silence for a long moment,
struggling to control himself. Finally, when he could keep his voice
even, he said, “Father, I realize you meant well.” Do I? he wondered,
but he plunged on. “But I fear I cannot accept this. I have no calling, sir.”
The elder Beckett waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, tosh, boy.
When you arrive at your parish, and read some tracts, a bit of holy writ,
it will come to you. I’m sure that’s how they all start out.”
I have to make him understand, Cutler thought, desperation
creeping up on him like an enveloping shadow. Taking a deep breath,
he made himself tell the truth. “Father, I am not even a believer.”
“Ha ha!” His father’s chuckle was genuinely amused. “Not sure I
am either, Cutler my boy, for all that I sing hymns with the best of them
on the Sabbath. What does that matter?”
“It matters because it’s not what I want to do,” Cutler said. Folding
his arms across his chest, he sat there in mutinous silence.
“You’ll come around, Cutler,” Jonathan Beckett said. “I’ve already
told your mother, and you should have seen how happy she was to
hear of it. She wept with happiness. You know she’s devout.” He
cleared his throat. “You also can’t have missed the fact that she isn’t…