Chapter Text
The first time Stede died, Mary Bonnet had actually believed he was dead.
After all, Stede was Stede. And he’d run off to be a pirate. Mary had given him three months then figured he’d probably been shot by the navy or thrown overboard by his crew, or possibly just got a very bad hangnail and couldn’t locate the manicure scissors in time. Regardless of how it may have happened there was little doubt in her mind that Stede had no chance of surviving long in the ‘new life’ he’d insisted on claiming for himself, and so after the three-month mark had passed, she duly reported his death to the appropriate authorities.
His subsequent reappearance, very much alive indeed, had therefore come as both an unpleasant shock and a headache-inducing legal tangle. Fortunately, he didn’t remain alive again for long.
The second time Stede died she knew of course that he wasn’t actually dead, and had rather more confidence in his ability to keep himself alive even amongst pirates. This turned out to be a surprisingly useful bit of knowledge as the years passed and Doug, bless his dear, sweet soul, grew first confused and then hurt by her continued lack of interest in marrying him.
Mary explained, as gently as she could, that while the world might think Stede was dead, she knew and he knew and more importantly God knew that he wasn’t, and Mary really didn’t want to have bigamy on her conscience.
This was true. It was not, possibly, the whole truth. The whole truth involved Mary’s current life and her enjoyment of it, the freedom, the wealth that was hers to control. The way she could cultivate her interests with no one around to stop her or criticise or make a fuss if she didn’t do as they wished. There was truly no better way to live as a woman than to be a wealthy widow, as she and her friends so often remarked. Mary had put in the years with Stede and now she was reaping the rewards, and no way was she going to give that up, not for anyone. Not even Doug, however much she loved him. She’d never be any man’s property ever again.
And so she remained, quite contentedly, the Widow Bonnet.
It was for this reason that Mary made sure to keep a keen eye on Wanted posters and a sharp ear on news reports, anything that might give a clue about Stede and whether he continued to remain among the living. She didn’t know if he’d gone back to pirating or just found his Ed and settled down somewhere with him, to live a quiet life. On the chance that it was the former, she wanted to know as soon as possible if he’d been killed for real, in case she needed to buy herself some time to come up with another plausible reason not to marry Doug.
And so it happened that one day, three years or so after Stede’s most recent death, she was shopping in town and took a moment as she always did to browse the bulletins tacked to the main notice board when one in particular first caught her eye then demanded every particle of her attention. It was a Wanted poster, not in itself remarkable, one of the sort that announced in bombastic terms a generous reward for a dastardly pirate with a long list of crimes and featured a drawing of the pirate in question—in this instance a simple pencil sketch of a face that Mary would recognise anywhere. She had spent years married to the man attached to it, after all.
Though the face in the drawing had undergone a change or two, she noted. Stede looked rougher now. Rakish even, with a short, pointed beard and hair that fell to his shoulders in waves which somehow managed to convey the impression that they were gloriously windswept, even in a few pencil-drawn lines. But then, Stede always did have good hair.
The Pyrate Captain Thomas, the poster proclaimed. Reward. Followed by a list of the crimes Stede was wanted for. Piracy—of course. Murder—that one was more surprising. Destruction of a vessel of the King’s Navy—well, naturally. She’d have thought that fell within the purview of ‘piracy,’ but apparently not. There were other charges too, lesser ones. And then, at the bottom of the sheet, the most surprising thing of all.
Known associate of the Moste Fearsome Pyrate Blackbearde.
Was he? Mary blinked in astonishment. That seemed like elevated company for someone who was still a novice pirate, despite his impressively long list of crimes.
Something tickled at the edges of Mary’s mind, something she’d read years ago. Something Stede had read to her, perhaps? About Blackbeard, and his real name. What was it? Tache? Tosh?
Teach. That was it. Edward Teach.
Ed.
Mary’s eyes went wide as she recalled that long-ago night, the soft, awed look on Stede’s face as he whispered, his name is Ed.
But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Her not-actually-all-that-dead husband couldn’t really be in love with Blackbeard.
Could he?
As unobtrusively as possible, Mary tore down the poster bearing Stede’s face. The last thing she needed was someone else around here—Doug, perhaps, just to choose a name at random, though really any of Stede’s old acquaintances would do—recognising him. They’d be bound to start asking impertinent questions, about how a notorious pirate could so closely resemble a dead aristocrat, for example. Just the tiniest seed of doubt was all it would take to get people wondering how plausible it really was that said aristocrat might be mauled by a jungle cat, run over by a carriage, then crushed by a piano all in the space of five minutes.
Honestly, Mary was still surprised by how completely everyone seemed to have bought that particular bit of fuckery.
She folded the poster and slipped it into her pocket, then hurried home, where she took it out again, unfolded it, stared at it for several long minutes, then ripped it neatly in two and tossed the pieces into the fire.
It was another seven years before she thought of it again.
Mary had never been a great fan of the ocean, which for a woman born and raised on an island was more than a little unfortunate. She did, however, love the storms that sometimes blew across Barbados, from that very ocean she so disliked. They made her feel alive, energised, and she often found herself in her studio on stormy nights, painting furiously as wind and rain lashed against the windows and howled through the air outside.
So loudly did they lash and howl on one particular night that Mary, hard at work on a new kind of flower, almost didn’t hear the banging on the door. When at last the noise broke through her concentration, she froze with her paintbrush hovering over the canvas and listened carefully.
Yes, there it was again, decidedly. The sound of a fist pounding heavily on her studio door. This time accompanied by a deep voice that cried “Bonnet! Widow Bonnet! Mary Bonnet, open the door!”
Rude, thought Mary. First to call at this time of night in this weather, and second to employ that tone of voice. She set aside her brush and palette, picked up an iron poker from the fireplace, and went to answer the door. If only to give the caller a piece of her mind and send him on his way.
When she opened it, however, she forgot everything she had intended to say.
Two men stood outside her studio door, or rather one man stood there, fist raised as though to knock again. The second man leant heavily against the first, barely upright and bleeding from several wounds. The man with the fist was also bloody though in a far better state than his companion, whose shirt was so drenched in red that even the heavy sheets of rain couldn’t wash it away, and whose face was half-hidden in the first man’s hair—until with a groan he turned it towards the light shining out from the studio.
Stede. Mary drew in a sharp breath. The limp, bleeding man was Stede. Stede from the Wanted poster, bearded and rakish—and pale. Dreadfully pale.
Deathly pale.
Mary’s eyes flew to the other man. He too had a beard, a long, thick, wavy one. It was grey, mostly, iron grey, the man’s eyes a deep brown and full of warring emotions—wariness, anger, exhaustion, desperation—and a soul-deep terror.
So this was Ed, thought Mary. Edward Teach. Blackbeard. Stede’s Ed.
“Please,” he said, and Mary stepped back to hold open the door.
“Get him inside,” she said crisply. “There’s a chaise by the fire.”
Relief flared in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
Mary gave a brusque nod, held the door as he dragged Stede through it, then shut it behind them and collapsed heavily against it. The poker fell from her shaking hand with a clatter that set her heart galloping faster even than it already was. She pressed the heel of her hand to her chest, as though by doing so she could prevent it escaping the confines of her ribcage, then allowed herself a moment to just be like that—just a beat or two of panicked what the fuck do you actually think you’re doing, woman before she she stood straight, pulled herself together, and followed history’s most feared pirate and her late husband into the small sitting area of her studio.
When she got there, Blackbeard—no, Ed, she was going to have to think of him as Ed—had eased Stede down onto the chaise longue and was crouched beside him, one hand gripping Stede’s and holding it against his chest, the other resting on Stede’s forehead. As Mary watched he ran his fingers through Stede’s hair, cradled his cheek and stroked a gentle thumb along his cheekbone. A small touch but one that looked well-practiced and so profoundly tender she could hardly believe it had come from such a man—then she caught a glimpse of Ed’s face. The expression he wore nearly brought her to tears. Stark heartache and raw, paralysing fear—the look of a man in very real danger of losing what he loved most in the world.
Mary thought about what Doug might look like if she lay wounded and dying in his arms, how he would feel. How she would feel, if it were Doug on that chaise. She drew a deep, steadying breath and set her jaw. Stede wasn’t going to die, not this time, she thought. Not if she had anything to say about it.
“You’ll have to move aside,” she said. Her voice came out rather reedy; she cleared her throat before continuing. “So I can treat him.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” Ed’s voice was gruff.
“I’m not a doctor,” said Mary, which wasn’t strictly a lie, “but I’ve patched up my kids many times.” She moved purposefully to Stede’s side, relieved when Ed readily stepped back to give her room. “What happened to him?”
“Ambush,” growled Ed. “We were—”
“No,” interrupted Mary. “What are his wounds?”
“Shot,” said Ed. “Through the shoulder. A few gashes and stab wounds but that’s the major one. Close range, too. His bone may be broken.” Ed’s voice cracked and he raked a hand over his face. “Do whatever it takes,” he said. “Cut his fuckin’ arm off, if you have to. Just keep him alive, okay? Just keep him—”
“Shh,” said Mary soothingly. Without fully meaning to, she reached out and put her hand on Ed’s arm. “I’m not going to let him die,” she said. “Okay, Ed? He’s not going to die.”
Ed nodded. “He’s not gonna die.”
Mary gave his arm a squeeze then turned her attention back to Stede. She probed cautiously at Stede’s shoulder, but the wound was obscured by congealed blood and the wet, clinging shirt, and she couldn’t get a good look at it.
“Ed,” she said, “behind you on a little table there’s a pair of scissors. Hand them to me, please?”
Ed did as she asked. Carefully, Mary cut away Stede’s shirt and peeled it back from the wound.
“Do you know if the bullet passed through?” she asked.
“I think so. He was bleeding in the back too.”
“Good. I think that’s good.” She hoped it was, anyway. “Let’s take the whole shirt off him.”
Together she and Ed cut away Stede’s shirt and used it to dab away the clots of blood that clung to the edges of the wound. Mary was no expert in gunshot wounds but she had a good grasp of anatomy and from what she could observe and feel after an exploratory prod or two, not only had the bullet passed through Stede’s shoulder, it had managed to do so while avoiding both his shoulder blade and collarbone. He’d been, relatively speaking, lucky.
“Missed all the important bits,” muttered Ed when she informed him of this, almost to himself and with a slightly manic chuckle. “Will he survive?”
Mary hesitated for a long moment as she considered the man beside her. Tall enough to be effortlessly intimidating, with a loose-limbed grace of movement only slightly hampered by the brace he wore on one knee. Wild-looking, leather-clad, heavily tattooed. Handsome, she supposed, if you were into that sort of thing. Now that the immediacy of his fear had abated she could see intelligence in his eyes—the astute, observant kind—and another fragment of memory tickled at her mind. Blackbeard was reputed to be a brilliant tactician. A genius strategist. Certainly a man eminently capable of thinking beyond conventional ways of doing things.
“That depends,” she replied. “What are your thoughts on witchcraft?”
“The real danger now is infection,” Mary explained to Ed some minutes later as she rifled through the supplies in her special cupboard. “As I’m sure you know. Bullets can drag bits of cloth fibres from the shirt into the wound, along with dirt or other foreign particles. If those get stuck then the wound can suppurate and that’s life-threatening.”
“Yeah.” Ed nodded. “I’ve seen a lot of men die from that.”
“It’s good that the bullet went straight through so we don’t have to dig it out,” Mary continued. “But it’s been so long since he was shot—how long, would you say?”
“Eight, nine hours maybe.”
“Yeah. Long enough that if anything is caught inside the wound it’s probably already begun to fester. We have to flush that out then wrap the cleaned wound in some linen packed with a few medicinal things to prevent any new infection before it starts.”
“And you have medicine like that?” Ed picked up a bottle and frowned at the label. “Calabash,” he said. “The fuck’s that?”
“It’s for reducing fever.” Mary plucked the bottle from his hand. “We’ll worry about that later.” She set the calabash back down and glanced at Ed. “Do you read?”
He nodded. “'Course. With Stede, all the time.”
The gruff tone of his voice caught Mary’s attention, and she looked at him more closely. As she watched he seemed to crumple in on himself, overcome by whatever was going on inside his head, his throat working as he fought back tears. In a brisk, no-nonsense voice Mary said, “Well you can help me then. Find a bottle labelled gavilana, please. G-a-v-i-l-a-n-a.”
She could see immediately that the tactic had worked. Ed snapped into focus and began to search in earnest.
He found the gavilana quickly, then several other things she asked him for, and soon they had collected everything she needed. Mary had never treated a bullet wound before but she had a solid idea of what would need to be done and how, and she set immediately to work. With Ed as her assistant she first flushed out the wound with a saline solution then bound it up tightly in strips of clean linen along with a poultice of gavilana, bush basil, and tree moss to prevent infection and help it heal quickly. Once the bandage was tightly secured, she mixed a few teaspoons of mimosa into some water with lemon and honey and left Ed to coax a barely-conscious Stede into drinking it while she tidied up and put her potions and powders back in their cupboard.
On her way back she stopped in her bedroom. Doug was there, sound asleep, bless him. He could sleep through most anything and was well used to her restlessness during storms. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, quietly collected some spare blankets and pillows from the wardrobe, and then, after a moment’s consideration, added one or two items that still reposed at the back of it, even after a decade.
Mary had often asked herself why she’d never got rid of Stede’s clothing, but never could produce a satisfying answer. Now, perhaps, she knew.
When she returned to the studio she found Ed seated on the edge of the chaise with Stede’s head cradled in one arm. His other hand held the glass to Stede’s lips, patiently easing small amounts of the liquid into his mouth, with impressive success despite Stede’s incoherent protests.
“Shhh, love, you need to drink it,” he murmured, in a tone so gentle Mary marvelled to hear it. “It’ll help with the pain.” She watched as he emptied the glass and made sure Stede swallowed every drop, then carefully eased him back against the sloping armrest of the chaise. He set the glass down then slowly, rhythmically, began combing his fingers through Stede’s drying hair, another plainly well-practiced gesture which seemed to have a soothing effect on both of them. The lines of strain on Ed’s face eased as Stede sighed and leaned into his touch.
“Ed,” he murmured.
“I’m here, darling,” Ed replied, still in that gentle voice. “I’m here. Sleep now.”
Gradually Stede’s breathing evened out and deepened, and Mary realised she’d been standing in the doorway watching them for the best part of half an hour. She tiptoed backwards then made a noisy production out of opening the door and walking through it, to give Ed plenty of warning of her arrival. When she looked at him again he had moved to one of the two armchairs that flanked the fireplace and retrieved the empty glass from the floor. This he held up for her to see.
“He finished it all.”
“That’s good.” Mary took the glass from him and exchanged it for an armload of blankets and pillows. “Would you mind tucking him in?” she asked. “I brought some of his old clothes down too. Those wet breeches and stockings can’t be doing him any good. If you can, ah, manage that, I’ll take the glass back to the kitchen.”
Ed nodded, and Mary gave him what she hoped was ample time to get Stede changed and settled in before returning, this time with a gently steaming infusion of calabash, fever grass, and soursop leaves. Ed occupied the chair again, which he’d dragged over closer to the chaise and was currently reclining in with what Mary suspected was a deceptively relaxed pose, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
He looked up when he heard her come in. “What’s that?” he asked, indicating the cup in her hands with a nod.
“Calabash,” she replied with a small smile. “Along with other things. We can give him some if he grows feverish.” She set the cup down on the table, then pulled the other armchair over to face Ed’s and sat down in it. Stede’s head rested on a pillow now, with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His wet breeches and stockings, she noticed, had been hung carefully over the fire screen.
Ed’s eyes were fixed intently on Stede, and Mary could feel anxiety radiating from him. “Hey,” she said. “We’ll need to stay awake and keep an eye on him for a while. At least an hour. Why don’t you use the time to tell me what happened?”
He shot her a glance, and a frown. “It’s a long story.”
“As I said, we have time. And I’d like to hear it.”
This was true, she realised. She was curious. After ten years of barely sparing Stede a thought except to wonder whether he’d got himself killed yet, suddenly she was keenly interested to hear how he’d been living. And how he’d managed to almost-die yet again.
Ed rubbed his chin for a moment, looking thoughtful, then he settled back in his chair and began to speak.
They were retired from pirating, Ed began by explaining, for the most part at least. It was a young man’s game and he’d been growing weary of it for some time before he and Stede had even met, but he’d stuck it out for a few more years to quench Stede’s thirst for adventure before they finally settled down together on a quiet island with a hard-to-find inlet perfect for concealing sailing ships, and made themselves a tidy income running some minor smuggling operations.
As one does, Mary thought, when one retires from pirating. Naturally. What else?
However, Ed continued, they had some former associates who were still quite active in the piracy game and so they liked to go along on a raid or two every now and again, just to keep the old skills honed and the reputation fresh, you know? A pirate’s reputation is everything and Stede at least was still rather fond of his.
Mary nodded in complete understanding. Of course he was, she thought. He’d worked for it. And who could understand the importance of reputation better than a society widow?
“So I dug out my old Blackbeard getup, I don’t wear it much these days you know, it’s hot and not great on the skin and Stede actually prefers it when I wear—uh. Yeah.” The words flowed easily from Ed as he warmed to his topic—a bit too easily perhaps, as he shot her a faintly abashed look then cleared his throat self-consciously. “Anyway. I got all kitted out and Stede did too, and we met up with our mates and went off to intercept this ship they’d heard was hauling some pretty fine loot, but when we got there we found the fuckin’ British Navy waiting.” Ed’s expression darkened and he clenched a fist against his thigh. “I fuckin’ hate those guys, and they really fuckin’ hate Stede. Like it’s basically a vendetta at this point. He killed a few of their officers and took a few others hostage, sank a ship or two and for some reason they take that really fuckin’ personally. I mean, if I held that kind of grudge against everyone who’d ever killed one of my crew or tried to kill me there’d hardly be anyone left on the fuckin’ ocean I didn’t hate. Have a bit of perspective, man.”
“Hmm,” said Mary. It seemed the only practicable response.
“So anyway, we gave ‘em a solid fight.” Ed’s expression shifted into satisfaction. “Got ‘em pretty good too, in fact, soundly damaged two of their ships, but in the end they are the British Fucking Navy if you please good sir, and they boarded us. Didn’t expect to find me and Stede on board but man, the looks on their faces when they did. Like they’d found fuckin’ El Dorado.” His lip curled in a sneer. “Opportunistic bastards.”
Opportunism struck Mary as rather more of a pirate trait than a naval one, but she forbore to mention this and Ed continued.
“Now, me and Stede have this thing we do,” he said, leaning in closer to her, “this move we pull when we’re cornered and need to escape, a slick little two-step sort of thing that Stede devised, and we did that. Nearly worked too, but we’re a step slower than we used to be, age, you know, not a pirate’s friend, there’s a reason so many of us die so fuckin’ young, anyway we weren’t quite fast enough and Stede got shot. We fought our way out even with him wounded and got away in a dinghy, barely, only because their ships weren’t at the right angle to hit us and our mates had jammed the guns on their ship before the Brits boarded.” He leaned back again and began to drum his fingers absently on his knee brace. An unconscious habit when he was feeling anxious, Mary surmised.
“Had no bloody clue where to go, though, our island was too far and Stede was losing blood fast and we couldn’t go to a doctor anyway because of the whole being wanted pirates thing and then Stede thought of you.” He glanced up at Mary, just briefly, and with more uncertainty than she would expect from him. “Barbados was close enough that we could get there in a couple hours and Stede said, he said—” Ed broke off and swallowed hard. “‘Mary won’t turn us away,’ is what he said. ‘She’ll help.’ I didn’t believe it, I’ll level with you, but we were out of fuckin’ options and so I brought us here. We stowed the dinghy on a little spit of sand farther from this place than I’d’ve liked but at least it was well hidden. Then we headed inland. Stede seemed okay at first but then he started bleeding real bad again and stumbling when he tried to walk and then it started fucking storming. Had to drag him the last two miles at least when I could barely see where I was going and I honestly thought—” his voice broke “—I thought he was gonna die before I could make it. I thought ‘he’s gonna die right here in my arms and then I’ll have to shoot myself in the fuckin’ head and leave us both here to rot in a goddamn jungle because I can’t—without him I can’t—I can’t’.”
He met Mary’s eyes and held them this time. His own were wet with unshed tears and brimming with emotion. “If he lives, I consider that a life debt,” he said quietly. “My life, owed to you. He’s my life.”
Mary felt breathless, overwhelmed. Ed’s devotion was a palpable thing and it both warmed her heart and made her feel frantic, like she wanted to run to Doug and wrap herself around him, listen to his heartbeat pound in her ear and feel his breath in her hair. “There’s no debt,” she replied. “Truly. Stede and I made terrible spouses but I like to think that in different circumstances we could have been friends. And even if that weren’t true, I still wouldn’t let him die.” Despite the fact that she had once very nearly murdered him, this was the honest truth—not a mere platitude to appease the dangerous and dangerously emotional pirate captain sat across from her. Not entirely.
And anyway, she had a feeling that if anyone could overlook attempted murder, it would be Ed.
Ed, who was smiling at her now. “Stede was right about you,” he said. “Thank fuck he was right.”
Stede shifted on the chaise and Mary moved to check on him. His temperature was normal and he appeared to be sleeping soundly, his breathing deep and even and a bit of colour blooming in his cheeks. A stark contrast to the state of him when he’d arrived, pale and delirious and all but passed out from pain and loss of blood.
“I think he’ll be okay for the night,” she said. “And it’s really late. You should get some sleep. I can show you to one of the guest rooms—”
“Ah, no.” Ed gave his head a vigorous shake. “Thanks, but I couldn’t leave him. I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”
Mary smiled. Given what she’d learned of him this evening, it was hardly surprising he’d refuse to leave Stede’s side. “Of course,” she said. “Let me get you some more blankets, though.”
“I’d like that.”
She hurried upstairs again to collect more bedding and when she returned directed Ed to a crate of paint pots that he could drag over to rest his feet on and stretch out. This he did, sighing when he extended his bad knee. Mary set the blankets down on the arm of the chair and then on top of them she placed another pair of breeches and a shirt. “Stede’s clothes,” she said.
Ed looked up. “Sorry?”
“Stede’s clothes,” Mary repeated. “Old ones that he left here. When he ‘died.’” She made inverted commas in the air with her fingers. “I still have them, they’re what he’s wearing now. I brought these ones for you. In case you wanted to change out of—” She gestured at his leather. “It’s just you said it wasn’t very comfortable and also it’s wet, and I really do think you should get some sleep tonight, if you can. So, ah—”
“Yeah.” Ed smiled again. He really had a lovely smile, Mary thought. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve worn Stede’s clothes. Thanks.”
Mary returned the smile. “You’re welcome,” she said.
When Mary returned several hours later—hours she’d spent tucked snugly in the warmth of Doug’s arms—to check on Stede and see if Ed wanted any breakfast, she found him sprawled bonelessly in the chair with his legs on the crate, wearing a pair of Stede’s old breeches and, from what she could see that wasn’t covered by the blanket, nothing else. His leather outfit was folded neatly and laid to the side along with his knee brace, and he’d pushed the chair and crate up flush with Stede’s chaise—so close that their legs were touching, so close that Ed could hold Stede’s hand against his cheek as they slept.
As quietly as she could Mary checked Stede’s temperature—still normal—and his bandage—would need changing soon but could last another few hours. Then she tiptoed from the studio and carefully closed the door behind her, leaving both men to their much-needed rest.
Chapter 2
Notes:
CW for brief, non-explicit allusion to the threat of child sexual abuse
Chapter Text
Doug rose very early most mornings. The students at his art school now numbered in the dozens and came from all around to study under his tutelage, so he liked to get an early start on his busy days. When Mary, who had returned to bed in the small hours after checking on her fugitive patient, woke again, Doug had long since departed, his pillow still rumpled from his head but cold to her touch.
Mary sighed. She’d hoped to have a chance to tell Doug about the pirates currently camped in her studio before he left for the school, but it seemed he’d opted to let her sleep rather than wake her to say goodbye, a gesture she would greatly appreciate on any other day. Now the revelation of Stede’s dramatic return to their lives would have to wait at least until that evening. She only hoped that Doug wouldn’t be hurt by her decision not to wake him the night before. And that Stede would be lucid enough by the time Doug returned that he could explain the situation himself.
Alas, when Mary arrived at the studio, she found Ed awake and hovering over Stede’s bedside, holding an empty teacup in one hand and radiating anxiety.
“He’s feverish, I think,” he said, the minute he caught sight of Mary. “His face feels warm. I gave him the calabash you left, but it doesn’t seem to be—”
“How long ago? For the calabash?”
“Uh”—Ed glanced up at the sun, just visible through the window—“thirteen minutes.”
“You likely wouldn’t see any improvement before now, then,” said Mary. “Especially as that was brewed hours ago. It loses its potency quite quickly. Give it another ten minutes or so and if there’s no improvement I’ll brew a fresh cup. In the meantime, we need to change the dressing on his wound.”
She sent Ed to the kitchen to mix the poultice, to keep his mind and hands occupied and him out of her hair while she removed Stede’s bandage and examined the wound. It did appear slightly inflamed, though nothing too concerning. There was no supperation that she could detect.
She swabbed it again nevertheless, just to be safe, and when Ed returned with the poultice packed it carefully and re-wrapped it with another length of clean linen. Then she pressed the back of her hand to Stede’s forehead.
“He does seem a bit warm still, but not so much that we need to worry,” she informed a wild-eyed Ed. “He’s doing well, all things considered. Don’t panic just yet.”
Ed visibly grappled with himself for a moment as his fear and worry for Stede warred with the iron-clad strength of will that had made him the terror of the seas. “It’s—hard not to,” he said.
Mary nodded. “It’s never easy to watch the people we love suffer.”
Ed turned to her with a smile, grateful and slightly wry. “Yeah,” he agreed, “that it isn’t.”
“To be honest, I’m a bit surprised,” Mary said, before she could think better of it. “I’d have thought this would be old hat for you by now, living as you do. Is this really the first time Stede’s been wounded?”
Ed appeared surprised by her question, then he grinned. “No,” he replied, “it isn’t. Not even close. The very first time I met Stede was right after he’d been stabbed in the gut. And then hanged.”
“Hanged!” Mary exclaimed, as though that were somehow more alarming than a stabbing. She supposed it was the nature of the thing.
“Yep,” Ed confirmed. “Long story. Point is, that gut wound nearly did for him. More than once I thought he wouldn’t make it. He did, though. Pulled right through. Since then, I’ve seen him stabbed more times than I can count, and slashed up, and nearly drowned. Shot too, though less badly than this. I never lost it any of those times, though. Not like this. Never felt so… I don’t know. Helpless before.”
“He was probably awake then,” Mary observed. “Also, you had a long time between when he was shot and when you got here. A long time to watch him bleed and fade and to feel helpless to save him. And considering he’s still not entirely out of the woods, I’d say it’s normal to be afraid.”
“I guess I just don’t handle fear well.” Ed sat heavily down in his chair and ran a hand over his beard. “Went years, decades really, never feeling it at all. Didn’t care enough about anything to mind losing it, I guess.”
Until he met Stede. Mary kept her expression neutral but internally she marvelled. Imagine anyone loving Stede Bonnet enough that just the prospect of losing him sent them spiralling. Mary, for one, absolutely could not fathom it.
Perhaps that was unkind. She had let go of most of her resentment of Stede when he’d died the second time. No—earlier even than that. When his confession about Ed had made her realise that the failure of their marriage was down to nothing that she had done or even that he had done. They could never have been fulfilled with each other—it was fundamentally impossible. And Mary had discovered that it was hard to resent a man who had been suffering in his way as much as she had in hers, especially once he’d left her with all the tools she needed to build herself the kind of life she’d always wanted.
At least, that’s what Mary had told herself. It was possible though that a leetle tiny bit of that resentment may still remain, buried deeply but unmistakably there.
“Let’s have some brunch,” she said to Ed. “You need to eat.”
“I couldn’t leave—” he began, predictably.
“He’ll be fine here for an hour,” she interrupted firmly. “It doesn’t do him any good for you to hover over him, worrying. Let him sleep.” She felt Stede’s forehead again. “His temperature seems better already and when we’ve eaten we’ll brew him some more calabash. Come on, Ed, you need to keep up your own strength. You’ve had a rough time of it.”
Ed placed his own hand on Stede’s forehead. “He does seem better,” he conceded. “And I could definitely eat.”
“Come on, then,” said Mary. “What do you fancy?”
Eagerness lit in Ed’s eyes. “Got any marmalade?”
“Oh, yeah, this is the good stuff,” he sighed some time later, after polishing off a plate of eggs and ham and three cups of tea so sugary she nearly gagged watching him drink it, and then settling in to a slice of bread liberally slathered with the best marmalade Mary had on hand. “We don’t have it so often anymore. Gotta raid the bloody Spanish for it, and sometimes they haven’t even got any. Friend of ours makes his own out of Florida oranges and it’s good, not saying it isn’t, but this Spanish stuff is the bees’ knackers.”
“I suppose it is nice.” Mary had never given marmalade that much thought.
“This marmalade, it was the first thing Stede and I ate together,” mused Ed. “Up in the crow’s nest of the Revenge, at sunrise. He woke me up and gave me some and God, I knew then—I couldn’t admit it to myself but I knew I was a goner. Never stood a bloody chance against him.”
Mary watched his face closely as he replayed the memory, worried he might lose himself in his fear again, but after a moment he met her eyes with a smile, this one thoughtful with a touch of shrewd. “Can I ask you something?” he inquired.
“Sure,” said Mary.
“How do you know my name?”
“Ah.” Mary returned his smile. “Stede told me. When he came back here, the last time. Just after I tried to kill him.”
Ed blinked in astonishment. “You tried to kill him?”
“Well, I say tried, it wasn’t much of an attempt.” Even as she demurred, Mary couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. It wasn’t every day that a respectable widow could shock a notorious pirate with the tale of her murderous intent, after all. “I was honestly going to. But then I found I couldn’t. And then he woke up.”
“You tried to kill him in his sleep.” Ed chuckled. “Bloody hell. You’re just full of surprises, Widow Bonnet.”
Mary had never thought of herself as being particularly surprising, and found the notion of it pleased her immensely. Equally pleasing was the discovery that she’d read Ed correctly—he didn’t seem especially bothered to hear that she’d once meant to kill the man he loved. “Anyway,” she continued, “Stede woke up and we had a talk. Finally talked through everything we needed to. And he told me he was in love with a man named Ed.”
Mary could still remember, so clearly, the emotions of that moment. Comprehension. Compassion. Soaring relief, for both of them. A weight lifted from their shoulders then, at last, a way out of the mess they were in.
“So did you know that I was Blackbeard, then?”
“No, not then. Stede just said ‘Ed’. But years later I saw a Wanted poster for him, which called him a ‘known associate of Blackbeard’s,’ and I remembered that your real name was Edward, and well.” She gave a little shrug. “The dots weren’t hard to connect.”
“You knew who I was and still you let me into your house, just like that. To save the man who made you miserable for years.” Ed shook his head. “Fascinating,” he muttered, then continued in a louder voice, “You know, I think you’re right. In different circumstances, you and Stede would have been friends. Great friends.” He paused, and Mary would swear his eyes actually twinkled. “Shame you had to fuck it up by marrying each other.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, as laughter bubbled up inside her. “That really buggered everything, didn’t it?”
Ed’s answering chuckle grew into a belly laugh as Mary tipped her head back and let the mirth just flow out of her. Soon they both were roaring, laughing until their bellies ached with it and tears rolled down their cheeks. It felt good to laugh, cathartic. It swept away the final, clinging dregs of Mary’s resentment against Stede, and when she met Ed’s eyes again she felt like the two of them had formed a connection. A friendship, even. Or the seeds of one, at least.
On impulse, she reached out and placed her hand on his. “Have you had enough to eat?” she asked. “If so, we should brew up some more calabash and go check on Stede.”
Ed stared for a moment at her hand on his, then placed his other one on top of hers and gave it a squeeze. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m good. Thanks. I—just thanks.”
“You’re very welcome,” said Mary.
Stede was still asleep when they returned to the studio, and less warm to the touch than he had been. Relief was plain to see in Ed’s eyes as he settled down to wake Stede just enough that he could drink the fresh calabash. This he did with barely a protest, then fell immediately back to sleep.
“Does he need more mimosa?” asked Ed, frowning down at him. “The pain—”
“I think for now it’s best to let him sleep,” said Mary. “That’s the best way to heal. We’ll see how he feels when he wakes up.”
“Er—okay, if you think so.” Ed settled back into what Mary now thought of as his chair and put his feet up on the crate. There he remained, unmoving, for several minutes, absently stroking his beard as he watched Stede sleep.
“I might do some painting,” Mary informed him. “Do you want me to get you a book or something?”
“No thanks, I don’t think I could concentrate on one,” Ed replied. “I’m not much of a reader, though I like stories. Stede reads to me, mostly, and I tell him stories.”
“Will you tell me some?” Mary asked. She was convinced it wouldn’t be good for Ed to do nothing all day but sit and brood at Stede’s bedside. He was clearly a man inclined to get lost in his own head unless he had some task to accomplish, some external thing to focus on.
He looked taken aback by her request, but quickly recovered. “Sure, if you want,” he said. “What kind of story?”
“Just anything you’d like to tell me. The kind you would normally tell Stede.”
“Yeah, some of those I’m not sure you’d care to hear,” said Ed wryly.
“Oh, you think they’re too much for my delicate, lady-like ears?” Mary scoffed. “Try me.”
“You asked for it,” said Ed, then launched into a tale about himself as a lad, in his first year at sea. How he and his mate Jack had followed their captain, Hornigold, into a brothel, not knowing what one was, and once inside were mistaken for employees.
“Turns out we were precisely the sort that their clientele most enjoyed,” remarked Ed, observing Mary closely with another twinkle in his eye.
Mary was rather shocked, she had to admit it, and more than a little horrified by the flippant way he told the tale. She supposed many years had passed since it happened, but still.
“How old were you?” she asked.
“Fourteen.”
“Goodness.” Mary took a moment to absorb that, then said: “Well. Go on, then. How did you escape?”
“Who says we escaped?”
“Did you not escape!” Mary spun around to face him, eyes wide and paintbrush dangling limply from her fingers.
Ed had the grace to look the very slightest bit contrite. “No, we did,” he said. “Sorry, I shouldn’t mess with you like that. We did escape. It was the first fuckery I ever pulled, actually. We were being led away to the back rooms by these two men but I managed to get close to Jack, close enough to whisper to him that he should cry out Edwina, no! when I gave him the signal. Then I tripped on the stairs—that was the signal—and Jack played his role like a star. The man dropped me like I was on fire. Thought I was a girl, you see, pretending to be a boy. Nothing I said after that could convince him otherwise, though I put on a show of pretending. Couldn’t give in too easy, y’know?”
“No,” said Mary faintly. “I suppose not.”
“So the man kicked me aside and said he was going to find himself a ‘real lad,’ to which I replied ‘Well, Jaqueline, we tried,’ then Jack’s bloke dropped him too. They were furious, shouting at the brothel madam for trying to scam them, and in all the confusion me and Jack slipped away and made it back to the ship. Hornigold knew it was us, of course—that bastard always knew everything—and he thrashed us good the next day.” Ed huffed a little chuckle as he shook his head, then his expression grew solemn. “But I’ll tell you, Mary, I’d’ve taken a hundred thrashings over one night with those men. They had the emptiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Worse than my dad’s, or Hornigold’s, or any number of vicious bastards I’ve met in my years at sea. Ice cold and dead flat. Not human.” He paused again and Mary tried to imagine it, imagine him, young and vulnerable, protecting himself and his friend with his wits and clever trickery. She found that it wasn’t difficult. What a remarkable person he was.
“So yeah.” Ed gave himself a little shake. “Jack and I buggered each other real quick after that, first chance we got, so’s if we ever found ourselves in a situation like it again at least we’d know what we were in for.” The smile he offered Mary was faintly abashed. “Er, sorry if I—”
“Don’t be,” Mary heard herself saying. “I did ask you for a story. And that is… well, it’s certainly a story.”
“They aren’t all like that,” said Ed. “Let me tell you about the time Stede and I accidentally captured a Dutch merchant fleet.”
Mary nodded eagerly. “Yes, please, tell me that one.”
Ed launched into the story and Mary listened, laughed and gasped and commented in all the right places, but her mind still lingered on what he’d revealed of himself in that first, tragic tale. It broke her heart to think about the horrors he’d faced at such a young age, and she doubted that was anything like the worst of it. Thank goodness he’d found Stede, late in life to be sure, but still early enough for them to have years together to be happy and in love. She understood much better now the origins of Ed’s fierce devotion, and why his fear of losing Stede was so desperate and so raw.
She really, really wanted to hug him.
They passed the afternoon pleasantly, with Mary painting and Ed telling stories, and Stede sleeping peacefully without visible signs of distress. Mary noted that the sound of Ed’s voice seemed to soothe him, that he only shifted on the chaise when Ed stopped talking, to reflect or to sip more of the tea Mary brought him. For his part, Ed often touched Stede in ways that appeared unconscious—stroking his cheek or running fingers through his hair, or just holding his hand, which he once did for over an hour, their fingers twined together and Ed’s thumb moving in a gentle sweep across Stede’s knuckles.
Many of the stories he told were of pirating adventures but even more were about the life he’d lived over the past decade. The quieter, domestic existence he had with Stede. These stories had an element of contentment to them that the others lacked; they weren’t told to titillate or to terrify, they were simple homely anecdotes of a happy life. As she listened, Mary found herself taking up a fresh canvas, washing it in delicate shades of blue and sandy brown then sketching on the outline of a wooden hut with palms behind it, an image drawn from Ed’s tales through her mind and out the tip of her paintbrush. She could picture it all so clearly—the beach, the hut, the swaying trees. The two men on the porch, sharing a drink or a pipe, or a nap together in their hammock.
Eventually her eyes and arm began to tire and Ed’s enthusiasm for tale-spinning to wane, and she was about to suggest that they take a break and have something to eat when Stede gave a deep groan and opened his eyes.
“Ed?” he croaked, and Ed was instantly out of the chair and crouched by his side. Mary heard a loud crack as he went down and winced, thinking of the knee brace he’d not worn all day.
Ed did not appear to notice any pain; his attention was fixed on Stede. “I’m here, love,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been shot,” said Stede. Ed gave a relieved chuckle.
“You seem lucid, at least,” he observed.
“Well, that’s a relief. How long have I been out?”
“You’ve been asleep for almost a full day.”
“Asleep?”
“Yeah.” Ed stroked his cheek. “You weren’t delirious for long. Mary sorted you out.”
“Mary?” Stede, for the first time since he’d opened them, took his eyes from Ed’s face and scanned the room. His gaze landed on Mary who, for lack of any more elegant options, gave him a little wave.
“Hiya, Stede. Glad you’re alive.”
“Mary,” Stede repeated. “You—you did let us in.”
“Of course I did. I couldn’t let you die. Not for real, anyway.”
“Oh good,” Stede nodded and gave her a weak smile. “That’s good. I’m grateful.”
“We both are.” Now that Stede was awake and talking, Ed’s face wore a beaming smile. Relief and joy shone from him.
“Do you mind if I check your wound, Stede?” Mary asked. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, please do. It hurts like a sonofabitch.”
Mary took only a moment to blink in surprise at hearing such a turn of phrase from him—he’s been living with Ed for ten years, woman, and you’ve heard the way he talks—then briskly unwrapped Stede’s bandage and inspected the wound. The skin was still raw and red but the wound had closed and the skin begun the process of knitting itself back together. There were no signs of suppuration. Mary gave Ed a reassuring nod.
“It looks good,” she said. “Should heal quickly now, if you look after it properly. I can put on some ointment to dull the pain before we wrap you back up again.
“I’d appreciate that,” said Stede. “Thank you.”
Mary went to the kitchen to mix up the ointment and a new poultice, and when she returned to the studio Ed and Stede were kissing. She stopped dead in her tracks and turned her back on them so fast she made herself dizzy, though still not quickly enough to miss noticing the way they held each other—Ed’s arm supporting Stede’s back, his other hand cradling his face. Stede’s arm—the uninjured one—curled around Ed’s waist, holding him as tightly as he was likely able in his weakened state. Even a glimpse of them was more than enough to convey the depth of tenderness and intimacy they shared—and the heat that simmered beneath it. Mary found herself feeling rather flushed.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she heard Ed say, gruffly. “I thought you were gone, Stede, I thought—”
“Shhh,” said Stede softly. “I’m here. I’m still here, my love, and I’m not going anywhere. It’d take a great deal more than one measly bullet to get me away from you. Three bullets, minimum, and even that would be a stretch.”
Ed chuckled, but when he spoke again his voice still quavered. “Don’t joke about it,” he said. “You don’t know what it was like to watch you fading away, barely conscious and talking nonsense, having to haul you bodily through a goddamn jungle in a downpour, not knowing where I was going or what kind of reception I’d get even if I—” His words were cut off and Mary recognised the sound of renewed kissing. It went on for several excruciatingly long minutes, during which she debated somewhat frantically what to do.
Then Ed said: “Thank fuck for Mary is all I’ll say,” and Stede inquired: “What did she actually do to heal me?” and Mary figured that was the best cue she was going to get.
“Oh, just a little light witchcraft,” she replied, breezing into the studio with her arms full of potions and a length of clean linen trailing behind her like a banner. “Things I picked up from the other widows. Old medicine, you know. Traditional.”
“Right,” said Stede, “well that’s good, then,” and Mary marvelled yet again. The Stede she’d been married to would never have been so blasé about traditional medicine, and would have insisted on a ‘proper doctor’ being called. He’d changed so much, she knew that from Ed’s tales. But it still jarred to witness those changes firsthand.
Stede sat obediently, gritting his teeth against the pain as she swabbed his wound and dabbed on some pain-relieving ointment, then followed that up by packing it again with the poultice and wrapping it up in linen.
“There,” she said in satisfaction. “How does that feel?”
“Better.” Stede looked at her with surprise and a touch of admiration that made her feel more smug than it probably should. “It really does feel much better. Thank you.”
Mary nodded. “Unfortunately, I don’t have any pain relievers you can take internally that won’t put you to sleep. We can give you more mimosa when you need to rest again, but now what do you say we have some dinner? Cook’s nearly done preparing it, and I don’t know about you but I’m famished.”
“I could eat,” said Ed, and Stede agreed.
“I don’t know if I can handle much but something would be greatly appreciated,” he said.
“She has some of that good marmalade,” Ed informed him. Stede pulled a face.
“Maybe later,” he said. “Perhaps for now just some broth and a little bread—”
“Cook is heating up some oxtail as we speak,” said Mary. “Ed and I will have a roast.”
Ed’s eyes lit up and he gave an eager nod. Stede smiled indulgently at him. “That sounds excellent,” he said. “Thank you, Mary.”
Mary and Ed helped Stede to the dining room where the three of them settled in and after a slightly awkward five minutes or so relaxed in each other’s company and began to genuinely enjoy themselves. This altered Stede turned out to be someone Mary could talk to much more easily than she ever could his former self, and Ed, free now from the fear and anxiety that had been weighing him down, finally convinced that his love was truly out of danger, was the life and soul of the evening—funny, charming, and sparkling with charisma. Mary watched him in mild awe. It was easy to see how this man could command the loyalty of pirate crews and the respect even of his enemies. It was easy to see why Stede would fall so hard that he’d be willing to give up everything he owned to be with him. Mary had honestly thought Stede both foolish and foolhardy, to do such a thing. But now she understood.
They were just finishing up dessert when a knock sounded at the door.
“That’s odd,” said Mary. “I’m not expecting anyone. Doug’s at the school until late tonight, and of course he wouldn’t knock.” The knock came again, louder and more insistent. “I suppose I’d better see who it is,” she said.
When she opened the door all the ease and comfort of the pleasant evening fell away, evaporated into the air like mist beneath the morning sun. The governor of Barbados stood just outside her door, with a naval commodore at his side and a group of armed Marines behind them.
“Widow Bonnet,” said the governor in that oleaginous manner of his that had always made Mary’s skin crawl. “Good evening. May we come in?”
Mary gripped the doorknob tightly but the expression on her face remained cool. “What is this about?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just a few minor inquiries we believe you can assist us with.” The governor’s smile made Mary’s stomach churn. “Regarding a pair of fugitive pirates.”
Chapter 3
Notes:
No, your eyes do not deceive you, the chapter count has grown. This is due to me taking way too long to edit it, and also wanting to give plenty of time and space to the last part. So two slightly shorter chapters instead of one monstrously long one.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Pirates?” repeated Mary in an incredulous tone, as though the notion were an utterly ridiculous one. Her heart began to race and her mind to whirl. There would be little she could do to hold these men off if they were determined to question her, or, as she suspected was their intent given the presence of the Marines, search her house. And if they did that, well. There were unmistakable signs of Ed and Stede’s presence in the dining room, as well as all over her studio. They’d be as good as done for.
Unless…
A tiny flame of an idea flared to life in Mary’s mind. Just a single, brave little flicker of light amongst the shadows of this grim situation. It could work. It should work. But it would hinge—all of it would hinge—on whether Edward Teach was truly the man that she believed him to be.
She was willing to bet everything that he was.
Raising her voice as high as she dared, she said, “What would I know about pirates?”
“Your late husband was a pirate, was he not?” oozed the governor. “The Gentleman Pirate, as I believe he was known.”
“My late husband was an idiot,” replied Mary scornfully, taking advantage of the opportunity to spit the word in what was very nearly a shout. “A grown-up rich boy playing make-believe with his little toy ship,” she continued, in a tone that would surely carry some considerable distance. “He wasn’t a real pirate.”
The commodore, a man with a haughty bearing and a round, ruddy face twisted into a supercilious sneer, made a growling noise in the back of his throat. “I have it on quite good authority that he was a real pirate,” he drawled. “My uncles, Nigel and Chauncey, could certainly attest to that. Before their violent and untimely deaths at his hands, that is.”
“My dear sir,” said Mary. “I don’t know who you are or who your uncles were, but I knew my husband and he was a bloody useless fantasist who died more than ten years ago. What does he or anything he did have to do with me now?”
“There was a battle two days ago,” sneered the commodore. “More of a skirmish, really. A pirate ship, captured by our navy. Two of the pirates escaped. They are believed to be the notorious Blackbeard and one Captain Thomas, a man who, as many have noted, bears quite a remarkable resemblance to your late husband.”
The emphasis he placed on those final two words, the implication behind it, chilled Mary to the bone. Being assertive she deduced would get her nowhere with this man, she would have to try a different tack.
“Stede didn’t have any brothers,” she mused, frowning slightly and tapping her chin with her finger, as if caught in delicate, lady-like confusion. “My son is away at school and of course not yet quite old enough to be a wanted pirate. So unless you truly believe that a man could survive being mauled by a jungle cat, run over by a carriage, and crushed beneath a piano, then I’d guess any resemblance between him and this ‘Captain Thomas’ is just coincidence.” She widened her eyes at the commodore. “People do look like other people sometimes, you know.”
“Er—yes. Ah, quite,” said the commodore, floundering slightly. Mary wondered if he had perhaps been expecting her to swoon in awe of his grandeur and authority. “Just as you say, madam. There are even those who claim I am the spitting image of my late uncles. Never really saw it, myself but I’ve been assured it’s extremely noticeable. Distracting, even. Yes. Rather.” Mary’s eyes narrowed speculatively as the commodore visibly collected himself and his wits. “Regardless, Thomas and his cohort Blackbeard have evaded rightful capture and punishment by the Crown,” he declared, “and we have reason to believe they sought refuge here. Now if you would be so kind as to step aside, madam, so the Marines may search your house.”
“Certainly not,” said Mary. “I am a respectable widow who lives alone. I couldn’t possibly allow you to—to invade my home.” She affected her very best look of elegant, affronted horror. “On what authority do you even dare make such a demand?”
“On mine.” The governor held up a roll of parchment. “This is a warrant, for search of this property and seizure of any fugitives discovered therein.”
He made to step forward with the commodore close behind, and Mary knew that once they were inside the Marines would soon follow suit. But she had one final card left to play. An unusual one, perhaps, but the commodore struck her as a man of a particularly fragile ego and she imagined this would hit him right where it hurt.
Mary started to laugh.
The commodore visibly bristled. The governor’s jaw dropped.
“Is this situation amusing to you, madam?” the commodore demanded, affront in every line of his body.
Mary leaned against the doorframe for support—effectively blocking entry into the house—and pressed her hand against her stomach as wave after wave of hilarity left her gasping for breath. “I’m sorry,” she managed to say, just before another peal of laughter bubbled up.
“Widow Bonnet.” The governor’s voice was scandalised. “Do control yourself.”
Mary allowed another moment or two to pass, just to really drive home the point, before she allowed herself to recover from her fit of feminine hysteria.
“I’m so sorry, Commodore, I do beg your pardon,” she said, with her finest attempt at batting her eyelashes. “I was just… momentarily overcome by your implication that this ‘Captain Thomas’ you’re searching for is actually Stede.”
“And why is that so overwhemingly amusing?” asked the commodore stiffly.
“It’s just the idea of Stede… and Blackbeard.” Mary produced another giggle or two, so she could demonstrate for the gentlemen her clear dedication to holding them back. “I mean. Blackbeard. The most famous pirate in history. And Stede Bonnet. Running away from the British Navy together. And then coming here.” She withdrew a lace handkerchief from her cuff and dabbed delicately at the corners of her eyes. “I just don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so thoroughly ridiculous.”
The commodore was now seething with barely-contained fury, the governor’s jaw still hanging loosely in shock. “Widow Bonnet,” he admonished, “kindly do not question the mission of Commodore Badminton. I am assured he has it on excellent authority that Captain Thomas—whether he actually is your late husband or not—did in fact escape capture alongside Blackbeard and is very likely to have come here.”
“So you think my husband faked his death, ran off to be a pirate, again, after he’d failed at it the first time, got himself a new name, took up with Blackbeard, got caught by the navy, escaped, and then came here. Just showed up on the doorstep of his wife who’s spent the last decade thinking he was dead.” She paused, both for stalling purposes and dramatic effect. “Really?”
“Er,” said the governor.
“Yes,” hissed Badminton.
“Well, all right,” said Mary. They would force her bodily aside before too much longer and by her calculations she ought to have delayed their entry by just enough. “By all means, come in and look around.” She stepped back and gestured for the men to enter. This they did, the commodore first and then the governor, followed by the Marines in an admirably orderly fashion. “Do be certain you check under the sofa,” Mary advised them, as they began their search. “I’m told notorious pirates often conceal themselves beneath the furniture in country estates.”
“Spread out,” snapped the commodore. “Hartley and Collingwood, you secure the upstairs.”
Two Marines detached themselves from the others and made for the staircase. “You’ll want to look carefully under all the beds,” Mary called after them. “I’ve been hearing some odd sounds at night recently that I couldn’t explain. I thought perhaps it might be mice but clearly it was just some runaway pirates having a kip on the rug.”
She was certain she heard one of the Marines stifle a giggle. Badminton’s scowl grew more vicious.
“A relief, really, if it is,” Mary continued. “Mice are so difficult to get rid of.”
Badminton made a growling noise in his throat as he very deliberately turned away from her and strode through the nearest door. This, as it happened, led to the corridor with the dining room at the end of it.
The dining room. Mary nipped after him as quickly as she could without appearing to run. Down the corridor Badminton strode with her at his heels, breath bated and her heart in her throat. The door at the end sat ajar and Badminton slipped through it, disappearing with Mary still several paces behind.
She was just reaching the door when his grating, supercilious tone inquired, “Did we interrupt your dinner, Widow Bonnet?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you—” Mary began as she entered the room herself. Badminton turned as she did and regarded her from where he stood at the head of the dining table, his hand clenched on the back of the chair. The table was empty save for a single plate with the remnants of her dessert and a china cup half-full of coffee that had long since gone cold. “—did,” Mary finished. She released her held-in breath slowly, so as not to betray her relief. “Though as you can see I was very nearly done. It is rather late after all.”
“And do you always take your dinner alone in the formal dining room?” inquired Badminton.
Mary resisted the urge to look around her, just to be sure there were no signs of Ed and Stede, no dropped napkins or stray cutlery to give them away. The odds of such were unlikely; if Badminton had a single shred of proof to support his suspicions he’d be on it like Ed on marmalade. She just had to hold her nerve.
“Not always,” she replied coolly. “Tonight I did.”
Badminton stared at her for a protracted moment, with an expression on his face like a surgeon preparing to perform an appendectomy with a butter knife, for no reason other than malice. Mary held his gaze, her own expression as vapid and innocent as she could make it. The tension between them slowly contracted and drew taut, straining, until she was all but quivering with it, unsure how much longer she could hold out.
The dining room door swung open and four Marines marched in. “There’s nothing here, sir,” announced one of them, completely oblivious to the vibes in the room. “No sign of them.”
Badminton turned his glower on the men. Mary nearly collapsed in relief. “Are you certain?” he snapped.
“Yes, sir. We checked every room twice.”
Badminton quivered with ill-repressed fury. He seemed, Mary thought, moments away from screaming something in the nature of well then check them a third time when an idea almost visibly formed in his head, like a lantern flaring to life. He turned to her again, wearing this time a slightly different pantomime-villain expression that she still did not care for in the slightest. “I believe you are an artist, are you not, Widow Bonnet,” he drawled.
“I am,” she confirmed.
“Rather a well-known one, so I am given to understand. Within the confines of your charming little island, that is.”
Mary forced her lips to smile. “You are correct.”
“Which suggests that you must have a studio. Did you search her studio?” he snapped at the Marines.
“No, sir, it’s—”
“It’s right this way,” said Mary, gesturing to a door behind her. “Follow me.”
She led the way down another corridor and round to the back of the house then through the studio door, with her heart in her throat.
Inside the studio everything was precisely as it should be. Paintings stacked neatly, paint crates in their proper place, the chaise and chairs just as they always sat, arranged around the fire. No teacups or bandages or articles of clothing and on her easel the painting of the flower she had been working on the night before. Of the beach hut she had begun that afternoon, there was no single trace. Mary turned to Badminton and the Marines with her very widest and most helpful smile.
“You’re free to rifle through the canvases, if you feel that’s necessary,” she said. “But do try not to leave any fingerprints, if you please, or anything out of order. I have an exhibition in a few days’ time.”
Badminton seethed wordlessly for a beat or two then turned to the man standing closest to him and barked, “Marine! Is there no sign of them?”
The Marine looked around the very obviously empty room in such a deliberately slow and pointed way that Mary imagined it must fall just shy of insubordination, then shrugged. “No visible sign, sir, no. If you’d like me to, er, rifle through the canvases—”
“No,” snapped the commodore, “that won’t be necessary.” He turned to Mary. “Well, Widow Bonnet,” he said, his voice rising shrilly. “You appear to be in the clear.”
Mary observed him—the colour high and blotchy on his round face, his eyes wide and bulging, the angry tic in the left one that did seem rather dangerously unhinged. The waves of fury rolling off him, the fingers twitching in a most unsubtle manner in the direction of the sword on his belt. All of this she took in with an inner sort of cackling glee and then deliberately chose violence.
He had invaded her home, after all.
“I do hope you don’t feel as though you’ve wasted your time and your Marines’ efforts on a wild goose chase, Commodore,” she said sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him. “And after troubling the poor governor for a warrant, as well. I would hate for you to face any… consequences for invading the home of a respectable widow at this hour of the night, on such flimsy evidence as you”—here she made inverted commas in the air with her fingers—“‘lost some pirates’ somewhere in the vicinity and ‘one of them might vaguely resemble my late husband’. It would be such a shame for what surely must be a distinguished career to end on such a sad, sad note.”
Badminton made a strangled, choking noise, like he wished very much to speak but the words were stuck in his throat. Mary gave his arm a reassuring pat.
“There, there,” she said. “I’m certain it won’t come to that. Particularly if you leave my home this very instant and your men ensure that everything is put back precisely as they found it. I fear that if even a single petal of a single flower in a single vase is out of place, I may not be able to forget what occurred here this evening.” She gave Badminton another sweet smile, with daggers drawn behind it. “Please, allow me to show you out.”
“I—thank you kindly,” said the commodore gruffly, the utterance of each syllable a visible struggle. “I believe I can find my own way.”
“As you like, then,” said Mary agreeably.
When they had all taken their leave, commodore, governor, and every last Marine—Mary checked the house three times to ensure that no stray ones remained, lurking in dark corners—she slowly released the breath from her lungs, drew it in again, and then began to laugh.
A genuine laugh this time. A laugh of exhilaration and, yes, also of relief, but mostly a laugh of appreciation tinged with awe.
Edward Teach, she thought. You brilliant, brilliant man.
With a light, quick step Mary headed for the kitchen, where Cook had left everything perfectly clean and tidy as she always did. The stove was swept, the icebox stocked, the tabletops scrubbed, and, tucked away near the corner of the far wall, was the doorway to Mary’s special cupboard, so seamlessly integrated into the wall itself as to make it near invisible. Unless one happened to know that it was there.
Mary pressed the corner of this hidden door just so, as Ed had seen her do a good half-dozen times at least, then stepped back as it swung silently open on its well-oiled hinges. Within it were the shelves lined with the bottles, vials, tins of powders and bunches of herbs that constituted her witchcraft stores and beneath those, arranged neatly on the floor, were the plates and cups and cutlery Ed and Stede had used at dinner, Ed’s leather outfit and the clothes Stede had been wearing when they arrived, a pile of linen bandages, the calabash teacup, and—propped carefully against the wall—her beach hut painting. Most importantly there were the fugitive pirates themselves, crouched awkwardly amongst this clutter, relief plain on their faces as they looked up at her.
“They gone?” asked Ed.
“They are,” Mary confirmed. “Are you both all right?”
“I think Stede strained his shoulder—”
“It’s fine,” said Stede, though his face was pale and his voice shaky.
“—but otherwise, yeah, we’re fine. Good thing you had this cupboard though, eh?”
“Very good thing.”
“Guess Stede isn’t the only Bonnet with a fondness for hidden closets,” remarked Ed, with a return of his wicked eye twinkle. Stede huffed with feigned indignation and Mary grinned.
“I suspect there’s a Story there,” she said. “You can tell me later. For now, we should probably get him back to bed.”
“You sure?” said Ed. “If they’ve got Marines and a bloody navy commodore out looking for us then it’s not safe for us to stay here anymore. We should go.”
“Nonsense,” replied Mary crisply. “If you go haring off into the night without a plan and with Stede still so weakened, they’ll surely catch you. Whereas this is now the last place they’d expect you to be. They won’t be back here again.”
“You’re certain of that?” asked Stede.
“Oh, yes, I can all but guarantee it. You should’ve seen the look on that commodore’s face when they couldn’t find even the smallest sign of you. Absolutely fucking priceless.”
“Oh, I can imagine,” Stede scoffed, as Ed nodded in agreement. “All those bloody Badmintons look exactly the same.”
“There’s also a possibility I may have threatened his career, just a little bit, you know,” continued Mary. “I mean. The nerve of him, barging into the home of a respectable widow, harassing her in the middle of the night.”
“It’s twenty past nine,” Ed observed.
“The middle of the night,” repeated Mary. “Looking for pirates. In my home. The very idea.”
“Shocking,” said Stede, with a sorrowful shake of his head as Ed helped him to his feet. “Unconscionable behaviour from a so-called officer and gentleman.”
“Right?” said Mary. “What would his superiors at the Admiralty say? I do believe I shall write them a letter, to find out.”
“As well you should,” said Stede. “It’s only proper, after he besmirched your honour in such a dreadful manner.”
“My poor, feminine heart is still aflutter from the terror of the experience,” said Mary. “I may well have a fit of the vapours.”
Ed, who had been observing this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, began to chuckle. “Pair of lunatics you are,” he muttered, then to Mary in a louder voice he added, “You see? I said the two of you’d make great friends.”
Mary smiled at Stede, with more fondness than she’d felt for him in—well, ever, if she were being honest. “You might be right,” she said.
“I’d certainly like that,” Stede informed her. “Very much indeed.”
“Yeah.” Mary nodded. “Me too.”
The three of them stood together in the warm silence of companionship, for a moment that felt far too sweet and too precious to take place in her witchcraft cupboard after two of their trio had nearly been dragged away by the navy, but then Mary supposed no one could ever really dictate when and where the significant moments of their lives would occur. Who would have guessed she’d finally bond with her husband by attempting to murder him, after all? It was probably fitting that they should turn another corner in their relationship under such plainly ridiculous circumstances.
Stede broke the silence in appropriately Stede-like fashion, with a small, pained groan followed by a dizzy sway towards the shelves behind him. Ed caught him deftly before he could fall, then caught Mary’s eye with an imploring look.
“S’rry,” muttered Stede. “Feelin’ a bi’ faint.”
“Right,” said Mary briskly. “Let’s get you both to bed. In a guest room this time, if you please. No arguments.”
“None from me,” said Ed. “Sleeping in that chair has done my joints no good at all.”
“Mmm.” Stede nuzzled his face into the crook of Ed’s neck. “Bed.”
Mary ushered them from the cupboard and closed the door firmly behind her. “Come with me, then, and we’ll get you sorted,” she said.
-
Notes:
Thanks to all for reading, and for your lovely comments. I am an awkward creature who basically never replies to them but I hoard each one like a tiny treasure and so I thank you ♥️.
Chapter Text
Mary waited up for Doug. She was far too keyed up to sleep or to focus on her painting, so she curled up in an armchair by the fire in the sitting room and ran her unseeing eyes over the same line in the day’s newspaper over and over again as her mind raced. The sound of the front door opening had her snapping the paper shut and leaping to her feet.
When Doug appeared in the sitting room he looked startled at first to see Mary there, then smiled his warm, loving smile and opened his arms. She slid into them gratefully, sighing as she settled her head against his chest. Doug stroked her hair.
“You didn’t have to wait up, dear,” he said.
“I know.” Mary snuggled closer and Doug tightened his arms around her. He always knew when she needed comfort and never, never failed to offer it. God, she loved him. “I love you,” she said. “You know I love you, right?”
“Of course I do,” he replied. “Do you doubt it?”
“I sometimes worry,” said Mary, the words muffled by Doug’s shirt, “that my not wanting to marry you… that it hurts your feelings. That maybe you think, deep down, that it means I don’t.”
Doug placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pried her from his person, until he was able to look down at her face. Cautiously, Mary met his gaze. What she saw there was nothing but the deep affection and understanding she’d always known with him.
“Darling, do we need to talk about this?” he inquired. “Properly, I mean.”
She nodded gratefully. “I think we do, yeah.”
Doug led her over to the loveseat where she sat with her legs curled under her and her head on his shoulder, his arm tucked securely around her, firm and comforting.
“The truth is that I do wish we could get married,” he said, after a short silence. “It’s something I always pictured for myself and a commitment I’d like to make with you. And if I’m perfectly honest, there’s a small part of me that can’t help feeling like I’m paying the price for Stede’s failings.” Mary’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach and she began to protest, but Doug continued before she could find the words. “But, despite all that, there’s a larger part of me that understands that your choice isn’t really about me at all. It’s about you.”
“How—how do you mean?”
“I know the real reason you don’t want to remarry isn’t because of how bad things were with Stede or because you don’t love me enough to move past that. It’s because being a widow gives you the kind of freedom you couldn’t have in any other way, and you don’t want to lose that again. Isn’t that right?”
“It is.” Mary leant back far enough that she could see his face. Her heart was in her chest again, pounding happily, and when Doug smiled at her it skipped a beat.
“I do understand that, my love,” he said softly. “And though I could assure you that I would never try to curtail your freedom in any way if we were married, the fact is that any marriage, no matter who it’s with, would mean sacrificing who you are.” He took her hand and linked their fingers together. “I don’t wish to take your liberty or anything else from you, Mary. More than anything I just want you to be you. Happy and free. As long as you have that and I get to be part of your life, I’ll be happy too. So if you want to know if it hurts my feelings that you don’t want to marry me, the answer is that it doesn’t hurt exactly, just makes me a little bit sad. The way people are sad when they want something they know they’ll never have. But I’m okay living with that kind of sadness. I understand the reason for it. And I don’t love you any less for your decision.”
“Doug,” Mary choked, “I love you so much. So much.”
“I know.” He pulled her closer, pressed a kiss to her forehead and stroked her hair. “You have the freedom to do anything, go anywhere, be with anyone, and you’re here with me. Because you choose to be. That’s how I know you love me.”
Mary sighed as she sank deeper into his embrace. “I’m so glad that’s settled because I have, er. Something to tell you. Something, um. Unexpected.”
“Is it that Stede’s here?” asked Doug. “With the man I presume is his Ed?”
“Yes!” Mary exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“I stopped into your studio before I left for the school this morning and I saw them there. Stede looked a bit worse for wear. I’m guessing he needed your medical care?”
“Yes, but I don’t think he came here for that. He was shot and had nowhere else to go.”
“Well, I’m glad he came here, then. Will he make it?”
“Yes, I’m almost certain. He’s healing well and with no infection.” Mary sat back so she could look at him. “You’re not upset?”
“It’s your house, Mary,” said Doug. “Your decision. And I know you’d never let anyone die, not even Stede. Not for real, anyway.”
“That’s exactly what I said!”
They shared a chuckle that faded into a comfortable silence, broken after a moment or two by Doug asking, “Do you want to hear something crazy?”
“Of course,” said Mary.
“Ed—I didn’t get that close a look at him, he was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him, but from what I saw… he looks exactly like how I always pictured Blackbeard.” He chuckled again. “Can you imagine? Stede, and Blackbeard?”
“Yeeeaaah,” said Mary. “About that.”
She filled Doug in on all the details, from Ed showing up at her studio door with a near-death Stede in tow to how they’d worked together to treat the wound and their afternoon spent in friendly conversation, getting to know each other.
“I know he’s, like, a legendary pirate and all, like I know that,” said Mary. “I know he’s probably killed a lot of people and done other terrible things. But he’s just so lovely. Sharp and funny, and he tells great stories. And he loves Stede so much. It’s the softest thing. They fit incredibly well together. I’m so happy Stede has him.”
“You really mean that, don’t you?”
Mary nodded. “I do.”
“That’s good,” said Doug, with his warm, generous smile. “I’m glad you met him, though the circumstances could have been a bit better. I feel like you needed that.”
“I feel that way too. I feel like I understand Stede better now.” She grinned at him. “You can tell a lot about someone by the choices they freely make. And by the people they freely choose.”
“You can,” said Doug. “I believe that very strongly.”
“So do I,” Mary agreed. “Let’s go to bed.”
They headed upstairs hand-in-hand, but as they passed the guest bedroom, Mary paused.
“I think I’ll just check in on them, make sure Stede’s okay,” she said.
“Sure.” Doug kissed her hand and then released it. “Take your time.”
She watched him proceed down the corridor and disappear through their bedroom door, then carefully pressed her ear to the door of the guest room. No sound came from within, not even Stede’s characteristic snoring, so she eased the door open just a crack and poked her head inside. In the faint glow of the moonlight slanting down from the window she could just make them out, the pair of them curled around each other and fast asleep, with Stede’s injured shoulder carefully bolstered by a pile of pillows and Ed’s head resting on the other. Stede’s cheek lay on Ed’s head and his arm curled around Ed’s shoulders. His fingers, Mary noted, were twined through the long locks of Ed’s hair. He was snoring, but faintly—perhaps the angle of the pillows helped him breathe better, she deduced, and resolved to test that theory on Doug. With a smile she withdrew her head back through the doorway and carefully shut the door behind her.
“How are they?” Doug inquired, when she came into their bedroom.
“Fine. Asleep. Stede seems okay.” He seemed far better than okay. He seemed content. Happy and fulfilled and complete in a way she’d never known him to be, not once in all their years together.
“So everything’s all right, then?” asked Doug as he got into bed.
“Yeah.” Mary nodded as she slid in next to him. “Everything’s perfect.”
Bright and early the next morning the four of them sat down and had breakfast together. Mary marvelled at the scene. Had anyone told her just two days earlier that not only would she soon be sharing a table with her not-so-very-late-after-all husband and both of their respective lovers, but that she would immensely enjoy herself whilst doing so, she’d have had a jolly good laugh at their expense. Yet, here they all were, eating and chatting and laughing and having a grand old time. It seemed that wonders, as the saying went, did in fact never cease.
When the meal ended, Stede returned to the guest room to rest and Doug headed out to the school. Mary and Ed lingered at the table over a final pot of tea. She was just about to ask if he’d like to sit with her in the studio again, when he placed his hand lightly on hers and said “Mary,” in the most serious voice she’d heard him use. “I think Stede and I better leave today,” he continued, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been more than generous but we can’t risk putting you and Doug in more danger by staying any longer.”
“It really is unlikely that they’ll come looking for you here again,” protested Mary. “And Stede is still recovering.”
“I know that, but I think it’s best. We have a home to be getting back to. And we should probably let our mates know we’re alive.”
Mary considered this. “Well, all right,” she said. I’d prefer if you stayed another day or two just to be on the safe side with Stede’s injury, but I understand.”
“I thought you might.” Ed’s eyes twinkled at her in that lovely way they had, a way Mary realised she was truly going to miss. “You do understand things, don’t you, Mary Bonnet.”
You understand me, was what Mary heard, and it was to that she replied, “Yeah, I think I do.”
On impulse she leaned over and wrapped her arms around Ed’s shoulders. It was an awkward angle for a hug and she could sense his surprise but then he shifted to face her and returned it warmly. His arms were strong and comforting, and he spread his hand wide over her back in a way that felt protective. Mary pressed her face into his neck and squeezed him tighter.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said. “I’m so glad we met.”
“Me too,” said Ed gruffly. “But who knows, maybe one day our paths might cross again.”
“Under better circumstances, I hope.” Mary leaned back to smile at him. “No more gunshot wounds, if you please.”
“I’ll do my best,” laughed Ed.
“Of course you’re welcome to come back again any time. Preferably as guests, if that’s at all possible.”
“We do enjoy costumes and a bit of role-play,” Ed mused. “I’m sure we could invent some characters respectable enough to visit the sainted Widow Bonnet in her home without drawing suspicion.”
“The sainted Widow Bonnet would be pleased to welcome you,” replied Mary in her best Prim Widow voice. Then, hesitantly, she added, “Maybe sometime when the children are here?”
“You know, I’d like that,” said Ed, after a brief pause. “I’d like to meet them. And I think Stede would like it too. He feels bad about not being in their lives at all, even though he knows Doug’s a great dad to them.”
“Alma still has that half a petrified orange,” Mary informed him. “She took it with her when she went to finishing school.”
“Aw, Stede would be really happy to hear that.” Ed smiled softly. “He keeps the other half on a bookshelf at our place. Sometimes I catch him watching it with a sort of wistful look on his face.”
“Well, I think that settles it,” Mary declared. “You’ll have to come back.”
“Hey, you know I’m at your command." Ed held up his hands. “Don’t forget, I owe you my life.”
“Ed, really.”
“Yes, really. It may sound dramatic but it’s the plain truth and I always repay my debts. Whatever you need, as long as it’s within my power I’ll do it. All you have to do is ask.” He met her eyes, his solemn and deeply sincere. “Just ask, Mary. I mean it.”
“I will.” She placed her hand on his and gave it a squeeze, as he had done to her. “I promise.” Then, both to lighten the mood and because it was a pretty pertinent question, she asked, “How will I reach you, though? I’m guessing the postman doesn’t make it as far as your island.”
“No, not quite.” Ed grinned, then tapped the side of his nose. “But Stede and I have our ways. Let’s just say we’ll be in touch.”
That evening, as darkness fell across the island of Barbados, a hired carriage travelled swiftly along a remote coastal road. It drew to a halt quite suddenly and at a most unlikely spot, nowhere near any town or settlement or any useful harbour. The coachman, who had been paid handsomely for his unquestioning cooperation and complete silence, made no comment on the situation.
Inside the carriage, Mary was busy triple-checking the bags she’d packed, with Ed’s leather outfit and some more of Stede’s old clothes, along with plenty of bread and cheese and oranges and several flasks of water. Mary had also provided Ed with all the ingredients for Stede’s various salves and poultices, and several lengths of clean linen to wrap his shoulder with. Together, they had carefully gone over the instructions for preparing everything, though she and he were both aware that it wasn’t really necessary. Ed knew what he needed to do and Mary had every confidence that he would do it, as competently as she could herself. It was just nice to sit down and talk it through, to make absolutely sure.
“Now, are you sure you have everything you need?” she asked him now.
“Yes.” Ed took the bags from her before she could check them again. “Everything I need. You made certain of that.”
He glanced at Stede as he spoke. Mary sighed.
“All right, then,” she said. “I suppose you’d better be going.”
Ed leaned over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. His moustache and beard tickled but his lips were soft and warm, as was his breath as he whispered, “Thank you, Mary.”
She nodded, smiled, touched his face just briefly with the palm of her hand, and then he opened the door and slipped from the carriage, silent as a cat. Mary watched as he disappeared into the falling dark, with the bags slung over his shoulder and an arm firmly around Stede’s waist.
Doug’s arm slipped comfortingly around hers. “We’ll see them again,” he said. “I made Stede promise.”
“Ed promised too,” she replied. “I just hope they’ll make it home okay.”
“Darling, they’re pirates. They’re used to danger, and the sea. They know what they’re doing. They’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” Mary settled back into Doug’s embrace. “They’re pirates. They’ll be fine.”
And so would they, she and Doug. Mary felt sure of that now. They’d all be fine.
“Let’s go home,” she said.
And so they did.
Notes:
Thank you all for reading and commenting, and for the copious Mary love! She's brilliant and I adore her, and I'm delighted you liked this version of her ❤️.
Pages Navigation
No_Illusions on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jun 2022 07:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
MamaMia921 on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jun 2022 07:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
bayaningbituon on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jun 2022 08:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ninjantome on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jun 2022 08:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
ImNotYourBreakfast on Chapter 1 Sun 05 Jun 2022 11:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Chai_Muffin on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 01:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
A_Professional_Protagonist on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 01:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
DaraOakwise on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 02:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
ravengreys on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 03:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
Spuffythatbuffy on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 06:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
timetravelingsherlockian on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 04:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Ruisacanop on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 04:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
irishsparkleparty on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 06:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
epersonae on Chapter 1 Mon 06 Jun 2022 11:27PM UTC
Comment Actions
claire (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Jun 2022 02:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
MassiveAggression on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Jun 2022 03:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
Avelera on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Jun 2022 04:29AM UTC
Comment Actions
HighlyExplosiveContent on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Jun 2022 05:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
xhoneyvanityx on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Jun 2022 08:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
derryday on Chapter 1 Tue 07 Jun 2022 08:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation