DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.
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Moving quietly through the sparsely lit corridors, Eleanor hiked her skirts up further in order to prevent the rustling sound of her movement against the fabric. Her stomach churned with nerves. Her mind raced with the many consequences of her actions, none of which promised any pleasantries.
She quickened her pace. Thus far she had remained undetected. She was almost there. So close to being back in the quiet confines of her quarters. There she could gather her wits without prying eyes. There she would devise a plan of action, a means of remaining unexposed. Or at the very least, simply ensure her continued survival.
After narrowly missing being spotted by Mrs. Hudson, Eleanor managed to slip past and into her assigned quarters. The moment she was through the threshold, she made a beeline for the small wash basin the the comer of the room. Scrubbing the blood from her hands and beneath her fingernails, the water quickly turned a rusted red.
The discovery of such evidence would be irrevocably damning.
Wasting no time, she turned and unlatched the nearest window, pushing it as far open as the hinge would allow. Carefully she lifted the small wash basin over to the sill, and promptly dumped it's crimson contents out into the chaparral of brush below.
Her hands were hardly what she'd call spotless, there was still some grime under her fingernails. It was certainly better than it had been only moments earlier, but she intended to do better. It was then that she noticed the crimson smears across the skirts of her dress. How in God's name had she overlooked such a incriminating detail?
She'd just begun unclasping the hooks of her corset, when door hinges sounded behind her. Her blood ran cold.
Seeing no other option, and steeling herself for the possibility of exposure, she slipped behind her dressing screen just before the door opened entirely.
Mrs. Hudson trotted into the room holding a pile of linen.
Had she not known better, Eleanor might have wondered what on earth Ms. Hudson was doing changing linen at such an ungodly hour. But as it was, she knew very well why the chambermaid had chosen this hour of the night to intrude. The bitch was always trying to catch Eleanor doing something prohibited by the perimeters of her commutation of sentencing.
It was a miracle Ms. Hudson hadn't chosen to come barging in while she'd been down in the dungeons. The discovery of her absence during Vane's escape would have forced her to scramble for a credible alibi. No such alibi existed, and that likely would have been clear. So, as precarious as her current situation was, it was better than the alternative.
From her position behind the dressing screen, Eleanor peeked through the crack between the screen's panels. Her heart racing, she watched Mrs. Hudson tsk and lay the linen down on the dresser, then head towards the open window. As Mrs. Hudson fought to get the window closed again, Eleanor racked her brain for a way to rid herself of the soiled garments and properly clean up without arising suspicion or eluding to the fact that she'd ever left her room this evening. With so few options at her disposal, she did all she could think to do.
She yelled Mrs. Hudson's name.
Like a startled cat, Mrs. Hudson jumped and whirled around. "What is it?" She hissed, clearly irritated by Eleanor's method of summoning. "What in God's name has you creeping about, hollering like some churlish heathen?" She stormed toward the dressing screen in an indignant fluster.
Just as Mrs. Hudson made a move to step behind the screens and confront Eleanor, her advance was halted by loud and angry words.
"Do not take another step! My wash basin was filthy, just filthy!" Eleanor spat. She prayed Mrs. Hudson would simply accept her behaviour as that of a spoiled woman of means, and do as she was told. "You'll turn around right this instant and procure me some fresh water..."
Eleanor's demand was met with quiet.
Panic rose in her throat.
If Mrs. Hudson decided to step behind the screens, there was little Eleanor would be able to do to hide her disarray. "In fact, fill me a bath while you're at it. It's far too hot tonight..." She did her best to steel her voice with authority and annoyance.
For another moment there was silence, and Eleanor began to fear Mrs. Hudson would question or deny her. As such, she was filled with relief when Mrs. Hudson's irritated voice sounded. "Be grateful Captain Rogers has taken a shine to you, girl... Not many here have."
With that, Mrs. Hudson turned, snatched up the empty wash basin, and stalked from the room. Eleanor let out a breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. That was too close. Far too close.
But at least now it had been established that Eleanor was indeed in her room, and the bloody garments remained undiscovered.
Over the next thirty minutes, Mrs. Hudson came and went from the room with buckets of cool water for the tub. Eleanor spent that time peeling out of the soiled garments and folding them in such a way as to not display the stains unless opened, just in case the impertinent chambermaid decided to surprise her. When Mrs. Hudson begrudgingly asked if Eleanor needed help removing the garments, Eleanor claimed she'd rather Mrs. Hudson hurry and finish with the tub. She was perfectly capable to undressing on her own.
When the tub was full, and the basin replenished, Eleanor was more than happy to dismiss the snippy little shrew. "You may take your leave. I'll have no more need of you tonight." She stated flippantly as she stepped out from behind the screen, wearing only her shift and heading towards the tub.
Ms. Hudson scowled. She had more than once implied it was improper for a lady of noble blood to perform the tasks of chambermaids. Bathing, dressing, hairstyling, and the like, were the tasks of handmaidens. It was more than apparent that Mrs. Hudson disapproved of both Eleanor and her propensity towards self sufficiency. Not to mention the goings on she suspected Eleanor was having with Woodes Rogers, a married man.
It was well understood that Mrs. Hudson followed Eleanor out of duty and respect for Rogers, not out of any affection toward Eleanor. In her eyes, Eleanor's criminality, promiscuity and insubordinate nature made her unworthy of any real measure of respect.
Eleanor knew very well that Mrs. Hudson had a strong distaste for her. She also knew that Mrs. Hudson had worked for Rogers' family for years prior to their voyage to Nassau. He had designated Mrs. Hudson not only as Eleanor's chambermaid, but as her de facto jailor. She was meant to keep a close eye on Eleanor.
So it wasn't surprising when the glowering woman seemed somewhat disgruntled with the idea of being dismissed so casually. But much to Eleanor's relief, Mrs. Hudson came to terms with the relegation rather quickly. She certainly didn't enjoy spending time with the Queen of Thieves, so perhaps she only conceded to the command out of a desire to gain reprieve from her assigned mistress.
In all honesty, Eleanor couldn't care less about the woman's reasoning; she was only glad she was leaving.
"Very well. I'll be just on the other side of that wall, should you require my assistance." Stone faced, Mrs. Hudson gestured towards the wall on the right of the room. Her words wore the guise of helpful attendant, but there was warning in the subtext. The true meaning was clear.
I am not far. You are not free. I am still watching.
Eleanor nodded. "Understood."
Mrs. Hudson gave a curt nod and turned swiftly on her heel, stalking from the room and closing the door behind her.
The moment the door was closed, Eleanor rushed over to the fireplace and set about lighting some kindling. It took a few minutes, but her time among the pirate campsites paid off; the log above her kindling finally caught fire.
With the fire lit, she rushed back behind the dressing screen to retrieve the bloodied skirts. Without delay, she tossed the skirts into the flame. For a moment she watched the the flames dance across the fabric, eating up the woven threads, blackening where it touched.
Was this what her life had come to? Creeping about and burning evidence of yet another betrayal. This betrayal had been borne of the heart and not ambition. She could not have watched Vane die. A part of her still loved him. She suspected there would always be a part of her that did. But did that really make it any better? Woodes was a good man, a decent man. She had sworn allegiance to him. Yet here she stood, having killed a man to free a pirate that would very likely insight a war.
What made it worse was that she hoped it would. She needed war to weaken the English hold on the island, to regain some small measure of control of her life and her place in Nassau.
After she'd spirited Abigail away from the fort and abandoned Vane to his men, she'd been consumed by guilt. Her father's murder and her following quest for revenge had been a welcome respite from that guilt. But it had still pained her to come to terms with the fact that she'd been capable of such a betrayal. She had loved him more than she had ever loved another. And yet still she had fed him to the wolves.
"You will turn on absolutely anyone, won't you?"
Those words had haunted her day and night. She didn't want to be that person. That person made her sick. She had done what she believed was necessary to secure Nassau's future and her own. But it had been at a terrible cost. A cost she wasn't sure had ever been worth it. Especially not now, with her plans for Nassau in ruins and her future so uncertain.
It was why she had slept with Rogers. She'd desperately wanted to believe she could change. That, despite what everyone thought, she was indeed still capable of love and loyalty. Rogers was prestigious, kind and honorable. His position even offered her a measure of power on his arm. He was exactly the type of man she should want.
But she didn't want him. Not really.
She'd tried to convince herself she did. That it was the right thing to do. That Rogers was the answer to all her prayers. A legitimate Nassau and a decent man as her partner, lover, and diplomat.
But she hadn't been able to make herself forget. She'd tasted real passion, real love, power and acceptance. And what rogers offered her, paled in comparison. Perhaps she could have convinced him to marry her and then pulled strings from the sidelines, played the doting wife. But it would have left her feeling hollow. She would never be more than his wife, a woman with no real power or position. She would live out the rest of her life under the shadow of men; a fate she had been desperately trying to avoid her entire life.
Perhaps Vane had been right. Perhaps it was better to die fighting and clinging to what was yours, than to live a life submerged in submissions and half truths.
She did not love Rogers, but she did respect him. She bore him no ill will. But should it come down to it, she would turn on him. Not because she wanted to, but because it needed to be done. Because while it was unlikely Nassau could remain free indefinitely, she was going to help ensure it lasted as long as long as possible. She'd brought England down upon Nassau, and now she would help cast it out.
She could let herself be that monster one more time. This new betrayal would eclipse the others, perhaps even grant her some small measure of absolution from those she had left burning in her wake.
Whether she lived or died in all of this, she would have Charles know where her loyalties had finally taken root. Charles and Nassau were the only things she'd ever truly cared for. There had been others that she'd coveted, even loved, but none quite so fiercely.
She doubted any of it would change things between them, she'd burned too many bridges to expect as much, but this was all she had left to offer him.
The sound of shouting and many feet booming through the hall, broke her train of thought.
They must have found the body and empty cell. There was no running now. They would come for her.
So be it.
She scrambled over to the tub, shucked out of her shift, and clamored into the water. She gasped as the cold hit the heat of her skin. Ignoring it, she reached up and unpinned her hair, tossed the clip to the floor and dunked her head underwater. Just as she rose from beneath the surface, the door to her chambers crashed open.
Woodes Rogers stood in the doorway. Flush with the remnants of tropical sickness and the exertion it must have taken to make it to her chambers.
Eleanor feigned ignorance, concern flooding her features. "Woodes, what are you doing out of bed?" She made a move to stand from the tub but Woodes rose a hand, gesturing for her to remain seated. His expression was somber, perhaps angry, but it was difficult to tell with the sickness still riding him. He waved off the helping hands of the two men behind him and closed the door.
Alone with her, the only sound was the slosh of the water in the tub as she shifted to grip it's edge. He asked one simple question. "Was it you?"
She frowned. Again she tried to rise and again he motioned for her to stay put.
"Tell me it wasn't you, Eleanor." Woodes pressed again.
Her mind flashed back to similar plea, a different man.
"Tell me right now you had nothing to do with this. Tell me this isn't part of your plan to push me into the sea."
The familiarity of the situation was striking and painful. But where she had been honest with Vane, swearing her ignorance of of Flint's schemes and meaning it, here she would lie. She would do what was necessary, just as she always had. "What are you talking about," She demanded."What's happened?"
He eyed her with both suspicion and something indiscernible. He moved away from the door to come to stand before the tub. His eyes burned across her face as he spoke again. He studied her features for a reaction as a simplistic explanation tumbled from his lips. "Charles Vane is gone. The guard posted outside his cell is dead."
She stood abruptly, letting anger and disbelief filter through her features. She stepped from the tub in all her naked glory, and if she was at all bothered by her lack of dress, it didn't show. "That's impossible." She snapped, reaching for her discarded shift. "There are men posted all over the fort. He can't have left the building. Find him."
She caught him glance down at her body as she moved to pull the shift over her head. Good, his distraction could only benefit her.
He recovered quickly, speaking with haste and frustration. "My men are searching the tunnels. But that man did not escape all on his own. He had to have had help, Eleanor." His words were riddled with accusation and suspicion.
She scoffed. "And you think that help was me?" She stalked toward him, maneuvering her body so that he would be forced to turn his back on the fireplace to remain facing her. The burning garment was still somewhat visible amongst the wood and flame, and she'd rather he didn't notice it. She didn't need more questions. "What good would that do me? After all I've sacrificed, when we're so close to seeing this through, you think I'd turn now?" She gave a wry laugh. "You must think me stupid."
His lips pursed. He seemed to be struggling with whether or not to place any trust in her denial. He needed another push, she needed him to believe.
"He killed my father!" She spat. She knew it was a low card to play, but she was out of options. Woodes knew she'd spent months trying to ensure Vane's capture, and that once she'd succeeded, she'd beaten Vane bloody while he sat chained in his cell. Hopefully a reminder of this would be enough to convince him of her innocence.
He studied her, clearly somewhat moved by her outburst, but unsure of exactly what to do with it. Finally, he nodded but his tone was still somewhat skeptical. "I understand your relationship with Captain Vane to have been... complicated."
Jesus, if he only knew.
Her eyes narrowed. "Not that complicated."
He eyed her for another moment before sighing and plopping down in a nearby wing chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and shook his head. "No, I suppose not..." His flushed face came to rest in his clammy palms for a moment, exasperation and exhaustion weighting his voice. "Forgive my mistrust, would you? I find my myself too weary as of late..."
Her face softened, and it was not entirely a deception. She was sorry for the pain all of this would cause him, but it was not enough to change things. She was stubborn and determined, and she could not afford to falter.
She knelt before him, gripped his knees and spoke softly. "You are right to be suspicious. To hold a position of power, you can trust no one..." The best lies were ones laced with truths. He lifted his head to eye her quizzically and she reached out to stroke the sickly dampness of his cheek. An action that spoke of affection but lacked real weight in her heart. She dropped her hand and lowered her head to rest on his knee, her wet hair leaving a damp patch on his breeches. She hoped the intimacy of the action would soften his resolve, but regretted having to resort to toying with his affections. Her voice was gentle but firm when she spoke again."But I did not conspire against you. I did not free my father's murderer..."
There was a moment of silence, a quiet acceptance of her words. Then his hand came up to rest gently in her hair. "I believe you."
She closed her eyes, let that truth roll over her, and steeled herself to be the traitor one last time. She could only pray Woodes had not been foolish enough to truly love her.
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"You aren't fooling anyone, you know. Least of all me." Jack Rackham tsked, leaning over to slosh rum into his friend's cup as well as his own.
He was met only by a scathing glare from Charles.
Seemingly unfazed by his companion's obvious irritation with the subject matter, Rackham continued. "I was there when you first laid eyes on that damnable woman. For years I watched you all but sell your soul for the sake of her. I was there through all of it, I was there when it all went to hell... But never once did I call you out on the shit storm we both knew she would bring." He lifted his glass, nodding toward Charles for confirmation of the statement's truth.
Charles scoffed. "Seems to me that if you had, it might have saved me a fuck-load of headache." He threw back the contents of his cup and reached for the bottle.
Jack gave a wry laugh. "Lets not pretend you would have listened if I had. That kind of love, it's..." He paused, looking sincere and thoughtful. "It's unrelenting, all consuming... It doesn't just go away because you want it to."
Charles rolled his eyes and continued to look murderous. There was little doubt in his mind that Jack's thoughts had drifted toward a certain cantankerous redhead.
The moment passed, and Jack shook his head, returning readily to the point he'd previously been trying to make. "Nothing I could have said would have made a lick of difference. You knew she was trouble, but you wanted her anyway."
Jack was met only with a sneer, but continued as if he'd received some kind of enthusiastic encouragement. He never did know when to shut up. "Not that I blame you, I've a penchant for difficult women myself. Anne is..." Jack frowned, waving off the thought of Anne with another shake of his head. "Well, you know how Anne is. My point is, while I understand you harbor a labyrinthine of paradoxical emotion in regards to Miss Guthrie, it is important to remember that she's..." Jack paused, searching for a delicate manner in which to voice his opinion on the woman mentioned.
When no such nicety presented it's self, he settled for blunt honesty. "Well, she's a ungrateful, traitorous cunt."
Vane arched a brow. The mirroring of his own words was uncanny, he'd called her the same thing only days ago.
He might have found this amusing, were he not being given the third degree on a topic to which he was already too well versed. His inflection was void of any underlying emotion when he spoke, but a hint of a warning lined the edges of his tone. "And you believe me to have forgotten this?"
Jack immediately began verbally backtracking. It was almost humorous. His face scrunched as though the mere suggestion had left a bitter taste on his tongue. "Forgotten? No." His hand rose to wave off the notion as nonsense. "I believe you've been well versed in the duplicities of Eleanor Guthrie." He shook his head and leaned back in his chair, drink in hand.
Charles eyed him expectantly, assuming he would elaborate.
With a sigh, Jack began running his forefinger along the rim of his cup. It was an absent and contemplative habit he'd been prone to for as long as Charles had known him. So before he spoke, Charles already knew he wasn't going to like hearing whatever it was Jack was about to say.
"However, I am inclined to consider the possibility that recent events may have... muddied the waters a bit... Her decision to free you from death and bondage, seemingly at her own peril, appears a brave and altruistic move..." With his head inclined to the side and his brows lifted, Jack attempted to gauge his friend's expression. To measure the probability of a fist connecting with his jaw should he fail to choose his next words carefully. Deciding it was worth the risk, he carried on. "A move that might perhaps be misconstrued as deserving of some measure of clemency?"
Vane's eyes narrowed. His lip twitched up in disgust. "You think I've forgiven her? That I would consider this one foolish act, likely only borne of guilt and self-pity, to be deserving of as much?"
Jack's face was somber, his tone serious and unapologetic. "Do you?"
The muscle in Vane's jaw clenched. His voice ground out through closed teeth. "Fuck you, Jack."
"Good." Jack nodded, standing to collect his coat from the back of his chair. After a brief and considering look at his friend, he turned an made for the door. "Put the bottle away and get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."
Charles sneered, calling out just as Jack made it to the doorway. "I threatened to kill her."
With his his hand still holding open the cloth that hung as a make-shift door, Jack paused. He didn't turn around, but stood there for another moment to see if Charles would clarify. He didn't wait long.
"She freed me, and in return I swore to kill her next we meet." His words dripped with venom and indignation, clearly insulted by Jack's insinuation. "Does that answer your question?"
There was a brief silence between them. Standing in the doorway, Jack still hadn't turned around, but he nodded solemnly. He knew all too well the pain this pledge must have caused Charles. Some fires were more difficult to extinguish than others, but Charles had tried nonetheless. That was worth a fair bit of credit.
Jack's voice was low and somewhat gentle as he next spoke. "It does... Goodnight, Charles." With that, he slipped from the tent and disappeared into the camp.
Vane closed his eyes. Tilting his head back and breathing deep through his nose, he tried to reconcile the madness burning within him. But the attempt brought little comfort. With an animalistic bray, he stood, upturning the chair beneath him as he flung the open bottle of rum across the tent.
He was met not with the satisfying smash of glass on impact, but rather the disappointing thunk of the bottle hitting the material of the wall and bouncing to the floor, where it steadily emptied the remainder of it's contents.
Figures.
He huffed out an irritated breath, raking his fingers through unruly hair.
He wanted to blame this sullen mood on Jack and his ludicrous ramblings. But truthfully, he was more angry with himself than anyone else.
Because Jack hadn't been entirely wrong.
Not about forgiving her, because he certainly hadn't. He wasn't sure he'd be capable of as much, even if he wanted to. Which he didn't.
But he still felt it. That virulent love, toxic and heady and determined to destroy him. It was infuriating. After all she'd done, whatever affection he'd held for her should have been extinguished with the onslaught of her many betrayals. And with the rage and pain driving him, he had thought such a thing possible.
Yet it hadn't happened.
Standing in that cell, confronted with her troubled countenance, he'd reluctantly understood the problem. No matter what that woman did, he would always want her. Even as he hated her, he would love her. Whatever they had shared, had left a bloody branding on his very soul.
But this ceaseless, boundless feeling for a woman who'd done nothing but slight and betray him, was dangerous. He felt it to be no more than weakness, an unfortunate remnant of a life that could never have been his. He had no intention of succumbing to it's wiles.
He told himself he'd spared her life that night to repay a debt, and that was partly true. She'd made apparent the potential folly of his martyrdom, saved his life, and might have changed the fate of Nassau. That was worth something.
But it wasn't the only reason she still breathed.
In her face he'd seen anguish and panic, perhaps even something resembling regret. And he found himself inclined to believe her disturbance to be genuine. It wasn't enough to make him forgive her, or even move him to sympathy. For she'd wrought this fate upon herself. But it was a difficult thing to ignore. Perhaps it was all an act, some new ploy to get under his skin. He wouldn't have put such a thing past her, but his gut was claiming otherwise. A fact that irked him to no end.
But genuine or not, he would not grant her yet another opportunity to leave him gutted.
He was no fool. Though she may well still own a very real piece of him, he would not be so daft as to offer her more. He'd gifted her her life in spite of her sins, he'd be merciful. But he would make good on his word. Should he find himself again in the presence of Eleanor Guthrie, he'd shelve whatever affection her still held for her.
He would kill her.