Work Text:
Mary, the Widow Bonnet, was in the groove right now. Sometimes painting was hard, and she felt like she was banging her head against the wall. Sometimes, like now, it came to her less like she was painting a picture and more like the picture needed to come out and she was the vessel used to put it on canvas.
Except… her maid Josephine had just popped in to remind her that it was Tuesday, and on Tuesdays she brought flowers to Mr. Bonnet’s grave, and now she was out of focus so she might as well do so anyway. Damn it, Stede, she thought privately.
She gathered up the bouquet that Josephine had thoughtfully prepared - Mary might be an artist but flower arranging was not her strong suit and she didn’t care to put her mind to it when she could be painting instead - and headed out. The graveyard was a bit of a walk from the house, but it was a lovely day so she didn’t mind overly much. It gave her some time to think about her latest work and how she might move forward with it. Always good to get out of the headspace for a bit, Doug would say, and make sure that you can give the art a chance to develop.
Unfortunately, this meant she was rather close to the graveyard before she realized it was not empty as it usually was. There was a man walking between the headstones, and he didn’t look like any man she had ever encountered. Tall, and dressed all in black leather. He must be sweltering, Mary thought. She was already overheated in her petticoats. The man had wild graying hair falling to his shoulders and a short salt-and-pepper beard. He looked dangerous. He looked like someone you didn’t want to cross. In a word, he looked like a pirate.
Damn it, Stede, she thought again.
Whoever this man was, she was certain that it was Stede’s fault that he was there. If he hadn’t run off playing pirate, she knew that a dangerous looking man who was almost certainly a pirate wouldn’t currently be wandering the Bonnet graveyard, no doubt looking for Stede’s “grave.”
There was a noise behind her. She froze like a rabbit before a predator. Someone grabbed her, putting a hand over her mouth before she could even think about screaming, and pulled her into the shadow of a few conveniently placed trees.
“Be quiet, Mrs. Bonnet,” a husky voice came to her ears in a whisper. “I am trying to help you, sí? If we can get you back down to the house before he sees you, you might be safe.”
“Don’t bother, Jim,” came a dark voice from the direction of the man in the graveyard. The person holding Mary - Jim, presumably - stiffened. “Either she runs into me here or I run into her at the house. Either way she’s going to deal with me.”
Mary froze. The house. The kids were at the house. This man could not go to the house.
She straightened up and shrugged her way out of Jim’s hold. Bending to retrieve the bouquet she’d dropped, she breathed deeply and stood tall, setting her shoulders and walking over to where the man was standing, waiting for her, next to Stede’s gravestone.
“Well done, Mrs. Bonnet,” the man applauded in a caustic tone, bowing in an overexaggerated parody of gentlemanly courtesy. “Or should I call you the Widow Bonnet?”
His tone got noticeably cooler at the last three words, confusing her slightly. But as she approached, she noticed three things.
One, there were already flowers on Stede’s grave, which had been neatened slightly, a task she hated doing and usually put off. She was sure it had been a bit of an undertaking, given how long it had been since she’d last done so.
Two, the man’s hands shook a little bit, and he smelled faintly of liquor.
And three, he had obviously been crying. Red nose and watery eyes that were not quite disguised by the kohl he wore like a mask.
No matter how he tried to hide it under bluster and anger, this was not a man who had come to Barbados because of a grudge with Stede. This was a man who had come for a different reason.
Was this Ed?
She was dying to ask. Why was Ed here? Shouldn’t he be with Stede? Why would Ed think Stede was dead? How could this dangerous looking man possibly have fallen in love with her foppish husband?
On the other hand, this was a very dangerous looking man, and she was loath to cross him to settle her curiosity. The last thing she wanted to do was set him off and put the children - or, hell, herself - at risk. She needed to tread lightly.
“Mary will do just fine,” she said evenly, extending a hand as she approached. She could see she’d surprised the man. What had he expected of her? She supposed it depended on what Stede had said about her, and it probably wasn’t flattering, given that he’d run off to sea rather than live with her, she grumbled to herself. “And what shall I call you?”
The man was broken out of his reverie and ceased staring at her, gripping her hand just a little too tightly. He smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of friendliness or even politeness. It chilled her.
“Blackbeard, at your service.”
Okay, Mary is a strong woman. In her “widowhood” she formed an entire group of women who she helped find community and freedom in their new single status. She creates art out of nothing and puts on shows all on her own. She lives her life on her terms. She is not afraid of any man.
She did not scream. But maybe she squeaked, a little, at the man holding her hand - at Blackbeard for Christ’s sake, Blackbeard who was in her graveyard presumably because of her thrice damned husband and who already, for some reason or other, seemed put off by her.
So, alright. Maybe a little squeak is fair, she thought. Blackbeard certainly had no right to look amused, and that, more than anything, straightened her spine once more.
“Well, then, Mr. Blackbeard, what can I do for you today? You were looking for me?”
He looked, begrudgingly, impressed with how un impressed she seemed by him, and let go of her hand, finally. He bent down to grab the bouquet that she’d dropped, again , when she’d definitely not jumped in fright, thank you very much, now looking rather the worse for the wear after being unceremoniously tossed to the ground a couple times.
“Begonias,” he mumbled, suddenly sober. “Unique harmony.”
She didn’t think she was meant to hear the comment, but as close as they were standing, it was hard to miss. And it was hard to miss the implications. What sort of pirate was likely to know the language of the flowers? Only one she could think of - the so-called “Gentleman Pirate.” Which meant that this man was likely taught the language of flowers by Stede, which meant that this man - Blackbeard, and she would come back to that later - was almost certainly Ed.
She thought quickly. Evidently Stede had never caught up to Ed, and Ed thought that Stede was dead. He presumably thought that she was reveling in her widow status, and, she assumed, thought poorly of her. And no matter how lovingly Stede had spoken of Ed, the man before her was dangerous, which meant she took a step back before she said -
“They also represent new beginnings, you know.”
The step back was a good move, as Blackbeard’s - Ed’s? - head jerked up and his eyes flashed at hers, fire in them. A deep breath and a muttered Spanish curse behind her revealed what Jim, who she hadn’t even realized had followed her, thought of this move. Mary heard the sound of metal on leather as she saw Jim approach out of the corner of her eye, clearly intending to protect her from the dangerous man in front of her, which she found touching even as she waved for Jim to back down. This was a dangerous man, yes, but this was also a man in pain, pain she hoped to alleviate shortly. If she could get this right.
“Is this all a fuckin joke to you?” Blackbeard all but roared at her. “Your husband in his grave, what, weeks? A couple months? And you prance about town as ‘The Widow Bonnet,’ profiting off his name and -”
“- that’s not my husband in that grave,” Mary interjected the second he took a breath. She meant this to be the start of the whole “Stede’s not dead, he’s out there looking for you” conversation but apparently this wasn’t the move she was looking for, as Blackbeard seemed to grow angrier.
“And now you slander his name. Not your husband! That man was your husband before God but you are not his wife, you don’t deserve that courte-”
“THAT IS NOT MY HUSBAND!”
Mary wondered, dazedly, how many people dared to interrupt Blackbeard, as all three of them stared at each other in a sort of frozen tableau.
“That is not my husband that is some other poor man’s corpse Stede isn’t dead,” she rushed to say all in one breath before Blackbeard could get off on another rant. All of his anger fled from his face as he stared at her with a haunted look. She took a breath. Get it right, Mary, she told herself. Make this right.
“Stede isn’t dead. He came back here but he didn’t belong, and he wanted to get back out there where he did belong, with the people he belonged with. So we faked his death. Had to make it look believable. There is a body in there but it isn’t his.”
The silence that followed this revelation was almost painful. The tension weighed heavily on Mary as she watched Blackbeard sort through the implications of what she’d said.
“Why would you tell me this? You could be putting your husband in great danger.”
“Well, one, he’s not really my husband anymore, two, you asking that question makes me think you don’t want him to be hurt, and three, your bouquet,” she listed off. He looked confused at that last point, and she gestured at the bouquet already on the grave. “Orchids. Grief and everlasting love.”
His face crumpled. Jim cursed behind her and wandered off again, evidently deeming Mary safe and wanting to get away from this scene. Mary was struck by the sight of Blackbeard - Blackbeard, and no we are still tabling this thought for later - crying at the side of her husband’s grave. And suddenly this was just a man in need of comfort. She reached out and gently, very tentatively, put a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly she was holding an armful of crying heavy pirate. Unable to hold up his weight, they sank to the ground and she let Blackbeard - Blackbeard, Jesus, no hold on to that thought - cry himself out.
When he was done, she handed him a lacy handkerchief and he stared at it, transfixed.
“Is this silk?”
“What? No, it’s cotton,” she replied. “Practical, especially if you have children. Is Stede giving you silk handkerchiefs? Wouldn’t surprise me.”
A flash of a smile crossed his face, a real one this time, as he mopped up his tears. She gestured for him to keep the handkerchief as he went to hand it back to her, now covered in soot from his makeup.
“I don’t know about silk,” he mumbled, “but he does like his rather exquisite cashmeres.”
She laughed, loud and relieved to see something human in the man, and he, hesitant and almost shy, laughed with her.
“Forgive me for asking,” she broached gently, “but - Mr. Blackbeard - does your name happen to be Ed?” His eyes flashed at her again, but less angry and more guarded. “Only, the night before we faked his death Stede spent rather a long time telling me about this man named Ed that he’d met while out at sea.” He began to tremble, only a little, only to the point where she could feel it because he was still leaning against her. “Remember earlier, when I said Stede had to get back out to the people he belonged with? He belongs with you, Ed. That’s why he left, to get back to you. He’s out there, right now, looking for you.”
Ed stood so suddenly that she was unceremoniously dumped onto the dirt. He reached down to grab her hand and pulled her up, murmuring apologies the whole time, a far cry from the man who’d gripped her hand too tightly and grinned coldly at her just a short time ago.
“He’s out there?” Ed asked, eyes shining.
“Looking for you,” she emphasized, squeezing his hand between both of yours.
“Why?”
“Well, that’s for the two of you to discuss, not a conversation for you and I to have in a graveyard.”
“What do I do?”
It was hard to believe that this man, shy, hesitant, was the confident and brutal man she’d encountered when she came up to the graveyard, but love makes fools of us all, apparently even Blackbeard - Blackbeard!
“You go after him, obviously! He’s been looking for you for weeks and clearly hasn’t found you,” she said with fond exasperation. “You and I both know he can be absolutely hopeless, and you’re going to have to pull some weight here. We put together a good fuckery getting him out to you, and I’d hate for it to go to waste because Stede can’t navigate for shit.”
Ed burst into laughter again.
“I think I like you, Mrs. Bonnet,” he said with a much brighter smile.
“Mary,” she reminded him.
“Mary,” he said, gripping her hand again, but with warmth this time.
“Jim!” he yelled, as they appeared from nowhere. “I assume you heard all of that, listening in from God knows where. Back to the ship! We’ve got some work to do, apparently!”
He strode off confidently, and Jim came ambling over to where Mary stood, watching him walk off.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bonnet,” they said quietly. “You don’t know what you’ve done today.”
“I think I may. I think I fixed another one of Stede’s dumbass problems,” she said, making Jim laugh. “And it’s Mary to you, too.”
They shook hands, and Jim ambled off after Ed.
Finally, Mary was alone in the graveyard. She picked up her sad bouquet, decided that Ed’s was good enough for the both of them, and tossed hers away.
Then she gave herself a moment to quietly freak out about what she had just learned.
“ED IS BLACKBEARD?!”
Damn it, Stede.