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Stede knows that he is weird.
He talks too much. When someone asks him about flowers or the sea, his mouth fills with so many words he could talk for hours and hours.
He speaks too loudly. When his mind fills with words and ideas, more than he could ever say, he feels himself getting louder and louder, almost as if trying to talk over himself. He cannot control it, the way his voice rises in his excitement until the only louder things are the whispers and stares of the others.
He moves too much. His mind isn’t big enough to hold everything he wants to say. He moves and he jumps and he accentuates what he says with gestures so grand the listeners sometimes have to duck beneath his arm.
He avoids people too much. Crowds are suffocating. So many people filled with expectations and judgment, stepping into his space and touching him without warning until he can feel tears of frustration and anxiety burning in his eyes. Even when he forces himself to stand still, he cannot stop the way his muscles withdraw, so tense he can feel it in his bones, trying to get as much distance between himself and the strangers as he can.
He gets too excited. Aristocrats aren’t supposed to get noticeably happier when talking about a specific topic. Aristocrats aren’t supposed to be so invested in plants and fashion and the sea – especially not men. Aristocrats are supposed to be pleasant and vicious and snobbish. Interested, but not too interested. Exceptional, but not too exceptional. Noticeable enough that people miss you when you aren’t there, but not enough to be singled out.
Stede is noticeably bad at being an aristocrat.
And he knows that people notice. He may not be overly observant, but after a while even he catches the way people laugh behind manicured nails when he enters a room. How others exchange cruel glances with each other. How people are not actually interested in the meaning of lilies, but in the flamboyant and goofy movements that accompany his explanation. And once he notices it, he can’t unsee it.
So he starts doing the opposite. He doesn’t talk. When people approach him, he takes care to avoid topics that genuinely interest him. He is overly aware of his body. Don’t flinch at loud sounds, don’t fidget, don’t take a step back when a stranger approaches – or, even worse, a familiar face. Just stay still and smile pleasantly.
It turns out that being the isolated quiet one is just as bad as being the bizarre eccentric.
So yes, Stede is more than aware of his oddness.
Sometimes he wonders if that is the reason he always dreamt to go to the sea. No expectations to disappoint or demands to fail, just the endless water glistening underneath the sun.
-
oOo
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Marrying Mary Allamby is one of the most distressing things he has ever had to do in his life.
Now, don’t get him wrong. Mary, he is sure, is a perfectly adequate woman. And the thought that he would miss his father is so ludicrous it almost makes him laugh out loud.
Except he kind of does, in a twisted way.
He does not miss the verbal abuse. Or the blood. Or the house confinements.
But at least Bonnet Senior was direct, always more than happy to inform his son exactly what he did wrong.
He tries to make it work with Mary. He really does. He takes care not to talk about plants and pirates and the sea. He does not ask to sleep in a different bed, even if his body, so unused to laying so close to another, is so rigid he needs hours to fall asleep. He tries to hide his tiredness and seem genuinely interested in the rare conversations they have.
He suspects he isn’t particularly successful.
One day – at the very beginning of their marriage, when they are still trying, and their attempts may even be genuine – they stroll together through the gardens. (That is one good thing about this marriage, nobody can prohibit him from spending as much time outside as he desires. Or prohibit flowers to be planted in his estate). They aren’t speaking, as is the case most of the time. The silence is uncomfortable, as it is all of the time. It is much more bearable with nature all around him.
And then he spots a lily. And he swore to himself he would ignore it, would not talk about it. Would not raise his voice and do exaggerated gestures. Would not annoy his wife.
But it has been weeks. Weeks where he constantly has to remind himself to be an aristocrat, to act even when he is in his own house. And he is so tired.
Stede Bonnet is a weak man. Weak and soft and pathetic. And so the words – spoken with such gusto, feeling better in his mouth than the most exquisite cuisine – are out before he can control himself.
“Did you know that although many flowers have the word ‘lily’ in their names, only the Lilium – which you can see over there – is actually a true lily? That is because they belong to the genus Herbaceous. Do you know what a genus is? Well-“
At first, the pervasive tenseness recedes, even if just for a bit. Mary even tells him she is glad that he is talking more. She starts talking about painting – something she has apparently always enjoyed studying and wishes to finally pick up as an art – and he tries to listen, even if he cannot bring himself to be interested. When they are both talking, they can at least try to pretend that this entire farce isn’t a total failure.
To Mary’s credit, it takes her an astonishing three days before she starts growing annoyed with him. Or at least visibly so.
(His father would’ve told him to shut up a long time ago.
“Nobody wants to hear this shit” “This is why nobody likes you, you rich little sissy” “If you say another word, you will skip dinner. God knows you could use it”)
Mary isn’t like that. At first, she just sighs a lot. Stede spins hour-long stories about pirates and the sea, so high on the permission – the encouragement even – to talk about whatever he desires, however he desires, that he misses it at first. When he does take notice, he does not comment on it. He is most aware of the significantly-less-than-ideal situation they both were thrust into, and it would be quite hypocritical of him to denounce her melodrama.
Then she starts coughing. He offers her a cup of tea with honey – to soothe the throat. For a second she looks relieved. She looks up at his face for the first time in hours and an almost genuine smile grows on her lips. Then he starts talking about the fascinating history of chamomile – its soothing nature having already been known to Egyptians in 1550 B.C. – and her face closes up again. “No thank you”, she interrupts him. “I don’t like honey. It’s too sweet.”
After that, she starts yawning. When he offers to read her to her at night, she just stares at him for a second. Then she turns and walks away.
Finally, she interrupts him. “That is quite enough about pirates, don’t you think?”
Stede knows what he should do. What he should be. An aristocrat. A respectable husband. He should respect his wife’s wishes, should stop blabbering on and on and on, should be the man his father always wished he were.
(even if he knows that nobody listens, nobody cares, and – most importantly – he is imposing on everyone around him even more than his mere presence already does.)
But he is tired and, foremost, he is weak. Stede knows he will give in sooner or later, so why even bother trying?
Stede knows he is the one who gives up first, but he is already so filled with shame this additional blemish barely registers. Neither do the tears that fall most days. Almost.
The walks in the garden are a thing of the past, now. They only see each other when it is unavoidable. Meals. At night, where both try to ignore each other as much as is possible while sharing the same bed. In the morning, where Stede always leaves before his wife has the chance to wake up. Stede talks about the books he is reading and the sea. Mary doesn’t say that much, but she doesn’t listen either. Sometimes she opens her mouth, but Stede notices it too late to stop talking and by the time he gives her time her mouth is shut again. When she asks questions, it reminds him of exaggerated makeup and dinner parties. He always has the feeling he is doing something wrong. The stony glare that is thrown at him more often than he can count makes him more hesitant to talk. When he does say something, it is with dread in his belly and the taste of ash on his tongue. No matter what he does, he can never shake the feeling that he is failing. (Stede isn’t even sure at what he is failing. Maybe everything.) He starts reading until long after the sun has sunk in the hopes that Mary is already asleep when he tiptoes into her- into their bedroom. Dinner turns into the most dreaded part of the day.
What is the point of talking if there is nobody who listens? If he keeps his thoughts to himself, at least he doesn’t have to hear the way his words echo in the empty estate. It’s not like he ever says anything right anyway.
Her eyes look more dull with every day that passes. Stede can’t imagine that his look much better.
-
oOo
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When Mary’s belly gets rounder, and it is finally confirmed that she is pregnant, Stede’s first emotion is relief. Not elation at having a child, not determination to be better than his father, not affection for his wife and soon-to-be-mother. It is relief that those unending nights of laying in bed, closing his eyes, and praying it will be over soon are done with. The second is guilt.
Kids make things…different. Sometimes a bit better, sometimes a bit worse.
Alma is a loud child. Stede and Mary devolve a sort of fragile kinship over their shared sleeplessness. They still don’t talk and certainly don’t love each other, but sometimes when Alma’s cries pierce the night they turn towards each other and share an exhausted look. He learns to be more appreciative of silence now that it has become so much rarer. When Alma is asleep in her quarters – a miracle that never lasts too long – her parents are too tired to dwell on the silence hanging over them like a boulder. Or the space always left between their bodies in the bed.
However, they both get more irritable with lack of sleep. Stede’s brain feels sluggish. He already has problems picking up on subtle changes and non-verbal cues, having Alma’s screams in his ears does not make him better at catching them. Where he gets slow, Mary gets irritable. For every pointed look or frown he misses, he can feel the air growing heavier and heavier. That is when she starts screaming at him more. That is when he starts to get more quiet.
One night, when Mary decides it is Stede’s turn to take care of a crying Alma, he starts talking to her. He takes her into his arms, carefully rocking her tiny form from one side to the other, and begins listing the prizes of Blackbeard’s latest robberies in an attempt to distract himself from the shrill and absurdly loud shrieks in his ear. It stops abruptly, and when he looks down, Alma is staring at him with wide curious eyes. He tries to put her back into her bed, but she squirms - clearly against it – and when he sees her taking a deep breath, he quickly presses her against him before she can start screaming again. She stares up at him, with big round accusing eyes.
He slowly starts talking again, haltingly at first, but when he feels her relaxing against him the words flow out of him with no stopping in sight. Soon he has to take care not to get too loud. A joy that he hadn’t thought possible anymore fills him. And he starts speaking. He speaks about Blackbeard – the fierce and vengeful pirate, whose flag alone terrifies merchants into surrender. He speaks about Hornigold, Blackbeard’s mentor and one of the first to become a robber at sea. He isn’t sure how long he stays in Alma’s room, weaving story after story after being silent for so long. When he looks down, she is long asleep.
When Stede tells his wife about his discovery, she gazes at him with one of her looks again. He can’t help but feel that he did something wrong, but the feeling is so familiar by now it barely registers. Finally, she sighs. Stede now reads his daughter a story every night – a duty he is more than happy to fulfill. And if he weaves a tale or two about piracy and the open sea, Mary never has to know.
-
oOo
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Alma grows incredibly quickly. Soon the crib is exchanged for a real bed, and the crying at night becomes a less and less common occurrence. Alma is a bright child. She squeals in delight when her father does the voices for the characters and she reaches for her favorite marmalade whenever she sees it on the breakfast table.
But a girl cannot inherit the estate.
It is Mary who admits it first. Of course it is. Mary has always been the more realistic one while Stede is the cowardly one who always tries to flee.
“Alma is growing up fast”, she says, and Stede almost smiles because he hasn’t connected the dots yet and remembers how his daughter is more interested in his pirate stories than the fairy tales.
“She is a very smart girl”
“But she is still a girl”. Both know what that means. Stede tries not to look too horrified.
Little Louis is a bit more stubborn than Alma.
Stede reads book after book, until the outside is in complete darkness and the letters become so blurry he has to stop. But no matter how late he returns to their chambers, Mary is always waiting for him with her nightdress folded over a chair and an adamant expression on her face. Stede knows from late-night whispers back in his private school days that some boys find the female body appealing, even had to listen to more than one sword play back in the day (if you catch his drift). All he feels when he sees the soft curves and pale skin is an unpleasant mix of apprehension and quiet resignation. When Mary tells him that she is pregnant – that they can stop – the tears that fall from his eyes are, for once, out of relief. He prays with all his might that his child is a boy.
-
oOo
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Little Louis is indeed a boy.
It is hard taking care of two small children at the same time. They end up splitting up the work – Stede cares for Alma, while Mary is responsible for Louis. Not only does it lessen the workload, but it is also an excuse to see each other less, and so neither party can complain.
Louis is much calmer than his sister. Where she used to scream until her voice was hoarse, he is mostly quiet. Where she needs hours to fall asleep – always forcing her eyes to stay open for just one more minute – he succumbs to it readily and easily. It is a good balance. She brings out the wilder side of him while he soothes hers.
Stede still reads to his children at night. It is the only part of the day where the prospect of endless monotonous grey days with a wife that barely tolerates him, and the dinner parties she insists he attends, and the feeling of slowly losing himself is a bit less prominent. When he looks at his children, sees their eyes widen in wonder and curiosity, hears Alma trying to imitate the voice of her favorite characters, or Louis squeal in delight when he spoke in a purposefully silly tone makes his chest feel light. It is far from perfect, of course. Soon their attentiveness will fall away. They will yawn more and more often – Alma looking annoyed whenever her mouth dares betray her and interrupt the story – until their eyes finally close. First, it will be Louis, so little and already so well-behaved. Alma will try to stay awake for as long as she can. Long after her brother is already fast asleep, she will beg her father for more and more stories about pirates and the sea. But she, too, is just a small child. Soon enough her eyes will fall shut as well, and Stede will be alone again, only the silence to accompany him.
Sometimes he stays in the room and just sits for a while. Clings to the feeling of being heard, of being more than an unnecessary nuisance.
Sometimes it feels like the children's room belongs to another building. Sure, the furniture follows the same style as the rest of the house, and the walls are painted in the same eggshell-white, but here he can speak without having to control his excitement and his gestures, and he has someone who listens. He tells himself they make it all worth it.
Most days, he can’t bring himself to believe it. (He feels guilty for that, too)
-
oOo
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Louis grows just as quickly as Alma. He gets less calm with age, and soon enough hearing two pairs of tiny feet running around becomes the new norm. Stede knows this is not appropriate behavior. Mary tries to tell them to stop, but Stede tells her to leave them. He is technically the master of the house, and so she complies. “Fine”, she says with cold eyes and a tense jaw, “they are your problem now, husband.” She says the last word as if she had meant to say something else.
He knows she disapproves – even knows why, for once – but he thinks of his father and fear and hiding and longing, and can’t bring himself to take it back.
Dinner is even more tense than normal.
He still tells his kids stories at night. Louis can stay awake for longer now, and they almost completely forgo the fairy tales and children's books for wild and violent stories about pirates. He makes sure to always read the Boston News-Letters in order to be aware of the newest robberies at sea.
Mary is not a fan. “Stop telling the kids those awful pirate stories! Louis is getting nightmares!”. He knows it is true. Where Louis used to be almost completely silent as a babe, they now can sometimes hear whimpers and screams coming from his bedroom at night. And his occasional cries for mercy leave no doubt to what he is dreaming about.
“You told me the kids were my problem”, he doesn’t say. Instead, he stays focused on the book so he doesn’t have to see her oh-so-familiar enraged and disappointed expression and stays silent. He does not stop. His own fascination with pirates never did him any harm (despite how many people might disagree with this assessment), and besides, the kids have so much fun with it.
(And they are the only ones who listen. It is only with them that he can let at least a little bit loose. It is only when seeing how enraptured they are with the beasts of prey that he feels a bit more like himself again. His life is miserable and his future looks bleak, but for a few moments it can seem less grey, even if just a little. He is already losing so much from himself, he cannot bear to lose this, too)
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oOo
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It is Mary who spends most of her time with the children now.
Sure, whenever she is tired and the kids are loud and abrasive and destructive she gives him a pointed look and asks if he “wouldn’t like to spend some time with them since you are such a fan of letting them do whatever they want with no consequences” The first few times he doesn’t realize the question is actually a request – Mary has always been better at passive-aggression than him.
But it is the woman in the house who is supposed to take care of the children, and so it is Mary who shows Alma and Louis the estate, and it is Mary who introduces them to the animals, and it is Mary who speaks with them the most often and teaches them how they ought to behave.
Alma and Louis are fast learners. Of course they are, both being incredibly smart.
Soon enough Alma is imitating the constant scowl of disapproval that he sees every day on his wife’s face. Louis is surprisingly good at holding polite conversation. Stede feels like it is a purposeful jab at him whenever Mary praises him for “being a better conversationalist than your father”
Now that Mary is filling out her role as a mother, Stede also has to start acting like the master of his estate. Which means exchanging unnecessarily long and convoluted boring letters with boring men. Which means barely getting to go outside, seeing his beloved patch of lilies less and less. Which means going to dinner party after gathering after banquet.
(Every time he leaves such an event – the mocking laughter in his ear and the humiliating knowledge that at least half the insults went over his head – he tells himself that it can’t become much worse. Surely the next time cannot be worse. And yet every evening feels longer than the last.)
Technically it is also the mother’s job to bring the children to bed, but Stede simply refuses to budge and Mary has no choice but to comply. He listens to her so often, surely he can be forgiven for holding onto this one thing.
He can see how he is losing his children. When he is not playing with them, they avoid him. When he speaks outside of their bedroom or their games, they look at him with puzzlement in their eyes. He feels like a stranger in his own estate.
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oOo
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It starts out innocently enough. It is so faint he can tell himself that it is nothing more than his imagination, and thus he cannot say with certainty when it begins. It is merely a feeling. The way they seem more focused on his movements than his words. The way Alma stops asking for more stories. The way Louis doesn’t laugh at his different voices anymore.
Alma has always been a special one. A curious soul, never scared of asking questions. So it should not come as a surprise when one day she looks at him and asks “why do you always speak so funnily?” (It stings. Suddenly his sanctuary doesn’t feel so safe anymore.)
He is guiding Alma and Louis back to their bedroom when it happens. Alma stops walking, crosses her little arms in front of her chest, and defiantly sticks out her chin with the confidence only very old or very young people can muster. “I’m a big girl”, she says. “Of course”, Stede answers, and he is not lying. Her head already almost reaches his chest.
(It’s been an eternity and she just barely reaches his chest)
“I don’t need bedtime stories. I’m almost an adult already.”
He stills for a second. She takes it as an invitation to continue. “I told Mary – my friend, not mother – that you read me stories every night, and she told me that’s weird. why doesn't mom bring us to bed like with everyone else?”
“But…but I thought you liked the stories. Pirates are grown-up stuff! I’m a grown-up and I like pirates!” His voice pitches embarrassingly. Alma looks at him with a pitying look, the one he is so used to seeing from his wife but is so much worse when worn by his daughter.
“I’m too old for such childish stories. And Louis gets nightmares from it.”
It is Mary who brings the children to bed after that.
-
oOo
-
The boat is ready.
The boat is ready. He is a nuisance to his wife. His kids don’t need him to read them stories anymore. He is quite uncomfortable in a married state. The only people who would possibly miss him are the aristocrats who will have to find a new laughing stock if he leaves.
And yet here he is, laying on his bed, in his estate, his back turned to Mary’s side as he waits for her to come back from the children’s room.
He isn’t even sure why he waits. It is not like they exchange many words at night. It is just part of their routine, the monotony ingrained in him by now.
“Stede, I know you’re unhappy” she says when she enters the room, breaking their routine. “I think I’ve heard you crying. By yourself.” He denies both claims, even if they both know that they are true.
She starts speaking. Her voice is passionate for once, not annoyed or blank like he is used to. She speaks about trying, about having to do the best with what they were given. All we have is this one life. The words echo in his head in an unending loop.
He thinks of his life right now. Of the growing emptiness inside him, of the unending monotonous days ahead of him. All we have is this one life. He imagines what would happen if he died tomorrow. He tries to think of something he is proud of, something he accomplished on his own and that he will leave behind when he is long gone. He cannot come up with a single thing.
Apprehension weighs down on his chest, filling his lungs and making it hard to breathe. He can already tell what his life is going to be like. More monotonous gray days, one after the other, until he finally dies. The funeral will be mostly empty. He doubts anyone would grieve him.
He cannot end up like that. (he cannot end up like his father)
Stede waits until he is sure Mary is asleep, already composing a letter in his head. Then he stands up - careful not to make too much noise - and packs his bags.