20It had been only two days since she'd seen her brother at the museum, and much of that time Rosie had spent in half-hour spells simmering behind her desk. Production had picked up in the time the Blinders' men had begun to filter into the factory to replace her more honest employees, and that only made Rosie's life only more hectic.
Really, it's the cruelest bit of irony, Rosie had thought bitterly to herself. Those who knew the business best, who had been the most trustworthy under her father's guidance, were the first who needed to go. God pity them. Rosie had delivered the severance letter to four families personally, as a courtesy. It had done nothing to assuage her guilt.
There was much to be angry about, in the passing days. There was Richard, of course. There was her ugly guilt about the company's transition and the headache of endless paperwork. And something more inescapable. Something that spelled out Shelby amidst the black ink of her letters and reports.
It was a Tuesday, it had just rained, and the yellow smog of Birmingham had cleared for the time being. Rosie halted for a moment, breathing in deeply. She could just barely make out small stars, offering themselves as pale dots against the black. How peaceful. She swallowed and threw open her car door.
When she arrived at 6 Watery Lane, she could see the lights from inside. This time she had to rasp on the door for several minutes before it opened. A man she didn't recognize opened it cautiously before a flicker of recognition came across his face and he ushered her in. Though she was rather sure they'd never met, he knew to call her Miss Walls. He told her Mr. Shelby was currently out, but that he would make a call to let his boss know she was visiting.
The man invited her to sit in the dining room, around a large circular table. The room was dark, covered in yellowed wallpaper, and a fire was slowly crackling in the fireplace. There were hutches filled with curiosities—Derby prizes, she could tell, picture frames, even a pair of old baby shoes.
Whoever had decorated the Shelby home was sentimental, though Rosie couldn't imagine who that could be. Perhaps the Shelby sister, or their mother. It occurred to her she knew very little about his parents. Sometimes it felt like the Shelby's had popped up in Birm without any warning.
As Rosie sat herself on a chair, a fit of anxiety crept in. Her presence was entirely unannounced. Would Thomas be offended? Irritated? He might not be home for hours still…but her nerves were screaming; she needed to see Thomas.
Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard the clip-clapping of heels working their way down the staircase in the corner. She looked up to see an older woman coming her way, with curled dark hair and a face full of freshly-applied powder.
"Rosie Walls," she declared, holding out her hand as she crossed the room in three quick strides. Rosie stood from her seat and shook it.
"Yes," Rosie replied, gathering whatever charm she could.
Sensing her confusion, the woman stated, "Call me Polly," before giving a quick but restrained smile. "Tommy's aunt."
"Of course. Pleasure."
This woman oozed authority. Perhaps it was a Shelby family trait.
Polly pulled out a chair from the table, letting it scrape the floor loudly, and sat lazily. "Would you like some tea?" she asked. "Or whiskey? We've got tons of it these days, so I hear from Arthur."
Rosie shook her head. "I'm fine, thank you."
Polly looked over at her for a moment. Rosie felt as though she was being assessed.
"A business woman, eh?"
"That I am," Rosie responded. "Automobiles, some real estate in Heath—,"
"Lingerie?" the woman smiled, pulling out a cigarette. She offered one to Rosie, who accepted it.
Rosie paused and gave an amiable laugh. "Yes, well, I suppose it's not much of a secret anymore." She let Polly light her cigarette and brought it to her lips.
"Oh, own up to it, darling," Polly advised, before inhaling deeply. "The whole business is not nearly as scandalous as you make it seem."
Rosie shrugged. "There's a comfort in secrecy. Or perhaps, better to say there's a certain…allure. I felt it necessary at the start."
Polly pursed her lips and smiled, the lines in her make-up creasing visibly. "Well, far be it from me to not afford a woman her secrets." Polly breathed out smoke. "And yet, I have to ask—what's an automobile, real estate—and now lingerie—businesswoman doing stuffin' her shipments with illegal ammunition?" Polly tsked and eyed her with amusement.
Rosie looked at the woman sharply, drawing a chuckle from her.
"Tommy told me. Good luck with your little business venture. Fifty is a heavy number to win from Tommy."
"I'm not surprised," Rosie breathed.
She could feel Polly assessing her with dark eyes.
"Just what are you here for tonight? Thomas wasn't expecting you." Her voice was soft, like she was thinking out loud. Her mouth turned upwards in a crisp smile.
"I-," Rosie didn't know what to say. "I needed to speak with him."
"Business?" Polly inquired, blowing out smoke.
"Of a sort."
Polly looked over her face for a moment, studying her. Finally, she said, "I can see. I hope this is what you want, darling."
Before Rosie could respond, the front door opened and slammed quickly. They heard rustling before Tommy marched in the dining room, jacket half off. Without thinking, she stood abruptly and smoothed out her dress. She felt her stomach flip before scolding herself for acting like a jumpy schoolgirl.
Thomas looked at Rosie for a solid moment, eyes only for her, then moved to Polly.
"Out, Pol," he demanded, pulling the rest of his jacket off. Polly smirked, stamped out her cigarette butt, and stood. She gave a quick goodbye to Rosie and sauntered past Thomas, her red heels clicking.
Thomas Shelby looked at her, his eyes almost ghostly even from a distance.
"I don't remember inviting you over," he stated. "Well, I wanted to speak with you," she replied. Rosie left her chair and took a few steps towards him. "About?"
"My brother. I've informed him of the changes to be made, in hopes he wouldn't look further. I didn't want to tell him about your involvement…" she said, cocking her head to the side, wringing her hands.
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "That went well," she continued. "But the rumors about…us…the other night have gotten around." Rosie paused, wondering if Thomas would act surprised. He said nothing and Rosie continued. "He knows about our deal. Or, at least, that we're…" She struggled with her words. "Acquainted."
"Is that a problem?" He said, his voice flat and cool. Thomas's blue eyes were burning a hole in her. She felt flayed open, every inch of her vulnerable to his gaze. "It…could be. My brother isn't known for his understanding."
Thomas was quiet, then nodded. His black coat and Blinders cap made him look like he'd just come from business—and not the kind Rosie was sure she wanted to know about. Something about him felt darker tonight—his mood, his face, his mind. Perhaps it was a mistake to come here.
"Does it matter what your brother thinks?"
Rosie considered. She'd asked herself that so many times in the past few days. She wavered between the fear of what he could take away from her, and the indignance that he would dare even try. So then—what to choose? Fear or pride?
"Don't you ever consult your family on business matters?" Rosie asked, at last. "Or does the Shelby business only stay inside your own head?"
Thomas shrugged. "Depends."
"'Depends,'" she repeated, softly. She sighed. "You've given me that answer a lot, you know"
He didn't respond, but Rosie saw the hint of a smile as he leaned against the mirror on the wall.
After a bit of silence, Rosie suddenly stepped away, hovering for a moment before approaching the glass hutch on the opposite wall, filled with picture frames. Behind her, she heard the click of a lighter.
As she studied the photographs, she could see there were several of Thomas, his face serious and intense. Even in these small portraits, she could see the deep set of his eyes and the hard line of his cheeks. He looked timeless, like a little sculpture, and effortlessly unmistakable in each photograph.
And there were his brothers, not smiling but still less grim. Together, they looked like little painted soldier boys. In one photo, she saw Thomas with his medals, his uniform perfectly fitted. Everything about him was edges, hard lines, strict patterns. There were others in the photographs who were less severe: little tots giving large, toothless grins, other Blinders she didn't recognize and an older woman—Polly, she now knew-giving a subtle, knowing smile. In several was a young woman, about Thomas's age, with short dark hair.
"Is this your sister?" Rosie asked, looking over her shoulder.
He replied yes automatically, somehow knowing what photograph she was looking at.
"She's very beautiful." Rosie's eyes wandered to each photograph, carefully noting each detail. Many were in front of this very house, right on 6 Watery Lane. One was seemingly in front of a gypsy caravan.
She turned back to him. Cigarette in hand, he was half-hidden in the darkness. She could see his eyes glinting in the darkness, watching her.
"I don't see your parents in any of these."
Thomas was silent. She smiled, amused.
"You weren't on good terms, I suppose," she said, slowly stepping over to him. "I can relate."
He watched her, head tilted up, eyes half closed. "Did you come over here to pry through my family's photographs?"
Rosie bit her lip. She didn't know what to say. Her heart was racing, though she hoped he couldn't tell. It was foolish of her to show up at his doorstep. What was she even thinking? She wasn't, that was the issue. Everything about Shelby made her feel like she was leaning on her tiptoes, daring to fall into recklessness at any moment.
Thomas's deep-set eyes were closed. Through the dim light, he almost looked as though he were sleeping upright, except for the still-lit cigarette in his hands. Perhaps she didn't need to be nervous. He was needling her. Hoping for a response. It felt like he was toying with her, circling around her like a predator around its prey. What sort of response was he hoping for?
Rosie breathed. He was still, but she felt him watching her, sensing for her. She slowly walked over to him until she was so close, she could smell the smoke and sweat on him. Rosie leaned into his neck and reached for the cigarette in his hand. Taking it, she inhaled, closed her eyes and then turned her head slightly to blow the smoke away from him. He eyed her through heavy lids, so close to her own face. She suddenly felt the overwhelming desire to lift herself up just a bit, to bring her mouth to his, to wrap her arms around his neck, to feel his lips on hers again…
It seemed this was the response he was hoping to draw out of her. No hand wringing. No nervousness.
Confidence.
Shelbys were sharks. They could sniff out weakness.
As if acknowledging she'd passed some sort of test, Thomas said, "Since you're already here, you can join me."
"Oh?"
"A party. There's some business to be had. Nothing to do with you," he paused, his voice low. "But it might be good for you to come along."
"You need a girl on your arm," she smirked, her stomach fluttering.
"Not need," he looked down at her in that way of his, eyes dark. He pursed his lips. "Want, more like."
He and Rosie still stood only a few inches apart. She returned his cigarette, their hands brushing against each other for a second.
"I doubt there will be trouble, but if there is—there is a condition." He placed the cigarette back in his mouth and inhaled. "You listen to me. Follow my orders exactly. Could you do that?"
"Follow your orders?"
"To the letter," he warned.
"Fine. If we're on Shelby business, I'll follow Shelby rules."
Thomas eyed her, looking for any hesitation. He would find none.
They arrived at a grand hotel, one she was suspected was outside of Peaky Blinders' normal territory solely off how far the drive was, the look of the men posted at the door, and the way Tommy eyed his periphery.
Rosie had borrowed one of Tommy's sister's dresses, a red, draping gown. Fortunately, they were almost the same size; Rosie felt just a tad stuffed in. Movement felt a little restricted, as it were. She hoped she appeared graceful anyhow.
The hotel was at the end of a row of buildings, four stories high. Two doormen opened gold-painted doors as the two entered, Rosie's arm wrapped around Thomas's. Inside they could see partygoers up on the floors above, mingling on the balconies. It was clearly a very formal affair. Guests in tuxedos and sparkling gowns flitted between the ballrooms and the lobbies. Waiters with trays of champagne and hor d'eourves circled the rooms. A band was set up in the center, and couples trotted in rhythm.
Rosie couldn't place who all the guests were. Not glamorous enough to be film stars, nor rigid enough to be aristocrats of the old money sort. No, they were almost definitely new money, and they had the un-dulled taste for opulence that screamed it. Rosie couldn't blame them, of course. She was new money too, or whatever counted for it in Birmingham.
She glanced at Thomas, donned in a fresh fitted grey jacket, and she couldn't help it but let herself feel that unrestrained wonder to be on his arm. In this light, he looked austere but refined, who not only belonged but stood above and apart from the others in the crowd. Rosie liked that when he walked into a room, he commanded it.
As they approached the middle of the floor where guests were mingling, letting themselves get lost in the crowd, Rosie stopped. Thomas turned to her, confused, but she grabbed his hand and led him into the ring of dancing couples, bringing him close and on beat with the music.
"I know we're here for business," she said in his ear now that he was close, "but humor me for a moment."
Thomas's eyes were piercing as he looked down at her, but she saw the tinge of a smile break into a grin as they swayed. "I won't turn down a dance with you."
"We've gone and fueled more rumors, haven't we?" she whispered to him.
"I pay it no fookin' mind," he replied in her ear. She almost laughed, because of course he didn't.
"So it never gets at you? The staring?" As they turned, she could feel eyes on her, just as she had the first night with Thomas.
"They're only lookin' at you," he said, his eyes flicking around the room.
Rosie frowned. "The Walls' name is not nearly as infamous as the Shelby's. Why should they concern themselves with me?"
"Hmm." He looked off in the distance, then back at her. "It has less to do with name, see."
"Then what?"
"A woman like you, in a dress like that…" he murmured, his voice low like gravel.
"Bloody hell," she laughed, "Mr. Shelby, are you flirting with me?"
He smiled, his face lighting up in a way she'd never seen before, and he pulled her in closer, their faces touching as she relaxed into his arms. She could feel his stubble on her forehead, and the stiff fabric of his collar, and the rough callouses of his hands.
Then the band finished with a riff and partners split to offer a round of applause.
Tommy pulled away, though still holding her hands, and said, " "We'll be meeting with a few contacts first. Follow me."
She took his arm and waded through the crowd, feeling almost drunk on the moment they just shared as they ascended the levels of the hotel. They reached a corner, and an usher opened a set of doors. Inside was a large room, positively filled with a hazy blanket of smoke.
Rosie enjoyed her fair share of cigarettes, but the smoke immediately made even her eyes water and throat burn. Men in expensive-looking suits were sitting on the sofas and chairs lining the room, maintaining a loud level of conversation.
With them were girls. Naked girls, at that. Rosie stopped in her tracks, eyes growing wide despite their protest of the smoke. Girls were sitting on the sofas, leaning on the men. Some wore boas and underclothes, while others were wearing nothing but hosiery and pearls. The men carried on, as if the girls were fully clothed, as if they weren't even there. However, Rosie didn't miss the groping hands, or the lurid kisses of a few couples in the corners of the room.
By a fireplace at the far end of the room, a couple of men were chatting with whiskey glasses in their hand. Thomas strove to that side of the room and introduced Rosie to two of his associates, two men with thick black beards and heavy accents.
"Miss Rosie Walls, I'll be damned," Charles Roy, one of the Roy brothers, spotted her and marched over, looked her up and down and offered his hand. She shook it politely.
"Simon, look, Miss Walls is here," he said, turning to his brother.
Simon looked up from his brandy class and nodded aggressively. "Ah, yes, yes, Miss Walls." He too walked over and took her hand with an air of performance.
The brothers suddenly seemed to realize whose arm she was on. "Thomas Shelby, sir, a pleasure yet again!"
Thomas nodded, saying, "Glad we could all be here—time to celebrate our successful new deal."
Thomas took two glasses of brandy off a server's tray and gave one to Rosie.
"Yes, to new fortunes and good tidings," said Charles, raising his glass. They all clinked their glasses.
As Rosie took a long swallow of her brandy, letting the alcohol burn her throat on the way down, she glanced around the room yet again. To be truthful, she'd never been in a situation like this—a boy's club, that was. The room behind the locked door, filled with the women and brandy, full of the secret business deals and illicit connections. So this is what it was like, then? How often would she be here, if she were a man? How would it be, to drink whiskey and bourbon with them? To smoke cigars imported from the Caribbean? To laugh about women and wives?
Even if she was in the room, she wasn't in the club. The Roys and Thomas had already struck up a conversation about an upcoming Derby.
"And how will Mr. Arnold will think of this development?" One of the men mused.
"Why would I care about fookin' Arnold?" Thomas answered, gesturing with a cigar in his hand.
"'ell, isn't he an associate of Robert Walls, Miss Wall's brother?" The man chuckled, looking at her now. "He's not a problem, then?"
Before Thomas could reply, Rosie answered. "Considering I run the family business and my brother does not, I see no obligation to care about Mr. Arnold."
The man looked from Thomas to her, a tickled expression growing on his face.
"I heard about you 'round town, Miss Walls—heard you keep the books and run the meetings in stead of your brother. I thought it was exaggeration, but really," another one of the men said, laughing.
Rosie turned to him, and gave a performative smile. "Books, meetings, and overseeing. All of it, yes, and exceedingly well, too."
"Ah—look at 'er!," Charles exclaimed, his pink face grew redder with amusement. "You remind me of our mum. Fire in woman form, I called her."
The men chuckled. Impressed they seemed, yet Rosie bristled a little. Perhaps it was the naked women behind her or the fact she was stuffed in this red dress, but she felt their stares deeper than normal. It caused her to feel exposed-and vulnerability had never sat right with her. Perhaps Thomas sensed her growing irritation, because he threw the last of his cigarette into the fire and sighed loudly.
"We're off. I'll send John tomorrow. Keep yourselves upright," he clapped a hand on Charles' back before placing a hand around Rosie's shoulder.
She offered a polite farewell—the men chuckled again and cheered her off—and Thomas led her through a side door in the room, into a small hallway, away from the din and smoke. The fresh air in corridor was sobering, and Rosie felt a little clearer. As they slowly went down the hallway, Thomas stopped and turned to her. "Thank you," he said, looking her in the eyes. "For stayin'."
Rosie blinked. "Oh," she breathed and looked away. "I…well, I was caught off guard. Didn't expect to see the Roys," she said softly. "I don't often dress like…this," she said, gesturing to the red dress and her curled hair, "when I see business contacts. I feel it….discourages the proper notion of my authority."
"I'm not business?" he asked. He was goading her.
"You know it's…," her eyes fluttered away. "We're past the point of sheer professionalism, Tommy."
Thomas simply nodded. They were in a service hallway, Rosie realized, so it was incredibly small, more like a passageway between rooms. There was barely enough space for them to stand together. Because of this, they were close. So close, Rosie was practically against him.
Her breath hitched at this realization of how close he was to her. Thomas had closed his eyes, almost like he was hearing, something far off, like a radio was connected to his head only he could hear.
Without thinking, Rosie brought her hand to his face, carefully touching his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck.
He kept his eyes closed, but his jaw wasn't clenching anymore. He relaxed a little.
The next thing she knew, they were leaning towards each other, their mouths coming together. Rosie brought her arms around his shoulders, hugging his body to hers. His hands rose to her hair, twisting into her curls. Each second grew more urgent. She felt his body draw closer against hers, pressing her against the wall of the hallway. He bit her lip, making her stomach lurch. The taste of smoke and salt on his lips, the rough stubble on his jaw, the warmth of his hands on her neck. She moaned softly, wanting him, needing him still closer. He dropped from her lips to her chin, then to her jaw, finally stopping at her neck, kissing so gently she couldn't stand it.
Her hands lowered themselves, almost on his stomach. She had no idea where she was going with this, where they were going with this.
Before she could think anymore, his lips were touching hers again. She was drowning in him, in his smell, in his form. All thought of where they were—of what any of this meant-fled her mind, and all she could think of was the heat of his body on hers, of the taste of his lips, of his rough hands holding her.
Suddenly Thomas took his hand out of her hair and to her neck, then her chest. Her breath hitched as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her leg around him. She forgot to breathe entirely when his hand flitted down to her curves, pushed her up against the wall, his hands floating down the lines of her body. His lips were still on hers. His hands began hiking up her dress, gradually bringing it from her knees to her hips, brushing the outline of her stockings. She gasped suddenly, breaking away from the kiss.
"Is there somewhere we can go?" It came out as a whimper. Suddenly everything felt so urgent, and she wanted nothing more than to feel all of him, to be closer than this. She felt him nod and then he pulled away suddenly. His touch had shocked her, but the sudden space between them was even more striking.
"Follow me," he said, withdrawing his hands from her waist to take one hand as he turned down the hallway the opposite way they came. The small corridor led to another hall, which they followed to its end, coming upon a row of rooms. They must be close to the large lobby they'd entered, because Rosie could hear the muffled mingling and the clinking of glasses. The entire place seemed a maze to her, making her grateful Tommy seemed to know exactly where to go. In fact, he seemed to have a particular room in mind. Something about it made her want to frown. Had he done this before?
Bloody hell, she thought to herself. Tommy was a grown man. So what if he'd traipsed in this hotel before with other women? She didn't expect him to be virginal. Or particularly chaste at all.
Yet she hoped that even if it was true, if he'd done this before, that this wasn't the same routine for him.
She suddenly, desperately, ached to know what this all meant to Tommy. He might do this sort of affair every other week—every night, even—but not Rosie. How could she know? How could she tell?
Tommy stopped suddenly in front of a door and opened its handles. No key. He knew he would be here. Her mind explored the reasons why, before reminding herself that he was on business, after all. Perhaps he simply needed a quiet room for that. Rosie stepped gingerly into the suite, a room painted deep red and covered in gold drapes and oak furniture. Inside there was a man—a Blinder—standing guard.
As soon as Tommy nodded to him, the man tipped his hat and turned out the door, closing it softly behind him.
"Did you expect to need a room at this party?" she asked, her tone a little too high to sound as casual as she wanted. "Or do you just have suites prepared automatically?"
"The latter," he said almost automatically. "I told you—tonight's for business. This room? Meant for a meeting later."
"But now, there's me."
"Now there's you," he replied back. "Unless you don't want to be," he said, gesturing to the door.
Rosie looked at the door and bit her lip. She wasn't sure why she was feeling so suspicious of Tommy and whatever habits he might have. Did she have a reason to distrust him?
Thomas was gazing at her now, waiting for her reaction.
"There's me and there's you," she breathed.
With that, he took a step towards her and wrapped his palms around her jaw, bringing her to him again. She met his lips, but it was slower this time. Their earlier rush was replaced with a sense of calm, pulsing need. Her body wrapped around his, holding him, lost in the touch and sense of each other.
Maybe she was still reeling from the smoke in her lungs, or maybe it was the dress that was just a bit too tight, but she felt light, breathless, like she was floating a few feet above everything else—that they were above it all, in their own atmosphere, their own system. Where he began and where she ended, she couldn't tell anymore.
Rosie broke away for a moment, sighing, feeling Tommy's mouth turn up into a smile.
It took far too many seconds for the pop of gunfire to register in her mind, but Thomas reacted immediately.
When she would think of this moment later, she'd half wonder if he'd been expecting it. She'd wonder if perhaps the way he had immediately pulled her down onto the ground was another souvenir of the war, like Edward and the way his hands shook. She'd ponder if maybe the way he commanded her to stay put without a hint of panic in his voice was evidence of all those rumored shootouts near the canals. Maybe both. Maybe all of it.
When she would think of this moment later, she would realize that this was the moment she knew everything she'd heard about Thomas Shelby was true.
And she didn't care.