Marguerite - A Thomas Shelby story

Chapter 33 - Here I Stand, Lover. Sister. Woman.

Marguerite's hand stroked the letter. The ink was dry now. 

She exhaled slowly, briefly closing her eyes and then looking up through the window to ponder for a moment. It was rare for Birmingham to be peaceful, quiet. It was Sunday today. 

There was a pigeon, singing lowly upon a chimney above the opposite house, its feathers moving slightly with the calm, soft breeze. A breeze that brought freshness, a crisp air that did not smell of factories and dirt. 

The young woman's eyes quickly scanned the letter again; her invitation to her Father. Her wedding. He would be disgusted, distraught, and he would bring Campbell and the police. And she would be waiting, with Tommy and everyone else. After a brief few minutes of sitting in a contemplative silence in front of the half opened window, she turned her attention to her mirror, stroking her light brown hair. It was growing back since she had impulsively cut it. She had wanted to look like Polly. 

Now all she wanted was to get her revenge over and done with, and to enjoy her life with Tommy. With the Peaky Blinders. 

Smiling, she turned to a sleeping Thomas Shelby. Marguerite held her head in her arms, leaning over the chair and admiring him in silence. She thought back now to when she had first met him, in the pub, over a year ago. How cold his eyes were, how stern his face looked. But also how elegant he was. His pale form lay in peace in the sun-kissed white sheets. It was not often that he found moments of peace, therefore Marguerite wished not to wake him up. Since the both of them had gotten together, Tommy was sleeping better, he was slightly less irritable. If only slightly. But still, it was an improvement, and Polly greatly praised it. Olivia and Arthur too, who were giddy at seeing the pair together. 

His neat dark brown, almost black hair was now messy, strands falling onto his forehead. He slept with one arm above his face, the other unconsciously gripping the covers. Marguerite could only hope he wasn't having a bad dream. Of course, she greedily let her gaze linger onto his bare chest. He was strong, bulky. She felt how tight his muscles were whenever he held her. It made her feel safe as much as it made her feel desire. 

Slowly, his weight began to shift. In a groggy growl, he muttered "Maggie" and the young woman eagerly strode over to his bedside, letting him bring a hand to her cheek, as he recalled that the wedding was in a week and a half. 

"Everything is being prepared," he said, as Marguerite joined him to lay her head on his chest. "Your Father and his friends in the police force know that we'll be waiting for them. Now, this is our wedding," he exclaimed, "so we don't plan on letting them win. We'll give them a party to remember, but as for your Father, are you sure you're ready?" 

Marguerite looked up, and brought her lips to his. 

"I'll be fine, Tom. I need to do this, no matter how much it might hurt. My Father... I hate him, and he needs to go." 

What was it about most men? Why were these cold-blooded gangsters the only men she trusted and loved? The rest of the men in this cruel world could rot for all she cared. Frank was gone, her Mother was gone, and with them her old self. All that was left of her was a passionate lover, entangled with a broken and ruthless man who understood the anger inside of her and her strength, her newfound unforgiving nature. 

Apart from that one part of her. The part of her that remembered the little girl she was, who used to stroke the petals of the trees in her grand garden, wondering when her classy Father would come back from his journeys. The little girl who would stand shyly, swaying from side to side and she held Aunt Emmeline's hand, grinning up at her Father, who settled his tie and nodded approvingly at the patient and responsible young girl she was becoming. That was gone now.