March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 25

I sleep fitfully through the night, unsure if I'm at any point lulled past consciousness or if, in fact, at any point I'm even truly awake. Images of Papa flash through my mind. Identify the body implicates he's been damaged beyond recognition, and my imagination conjures up all the ways, drawing from ever whispered horror story I've heard of what happens to our men at war.

I open my eyes in the dark and my stomach slowly sinks. In spite of everything, some part of me had been hoping John would be beside me when I woke.

I place my head in my hands. I owe him an explanation, at least.

He's asleep on the sofa in a white Henley shirt and trousers, one arm hanging off the edge. His face is light and peaceful, barely-audible snores coming from his nose.

I clear my throat, and he blinks his eyes open.

"I can't be your mistress," I say.

He frowns, rubbing his eyes. "Eh?"

But I need to have it out. "I can't be your mistress because I'm your Nanny. And regardless of how people will look at me and the things they will say... I love the children. Already." I begin to pace. "And if I am your mistress, things will end badly. You will find a wife, and you will marry her, and you'll have to tell her and then she will hate me. There won't be any nice goodbye between us. It will be tinged with awkwardness and sadness."

I can't bear to look at him as he thinks my words over, pushing himself up. "You might be right," he says.

"And I really like being your friend John," I continue. "If that's even what we are. I crossed a line last night, and it was inappropriate. I'm sorry and it won't happen again, and—"

"You didn't," he says.

"I asked for it." My cheeks threaten to burn. "And I shouldn't have, and you were a perfect gentleman, and..." The grandfather clock catches my attention, and dread hits me in the stomach like ice. "Oh my god, it's five thirty in the morning."

I race through to my bedroom, pulling a white dress over my slip and tugging stockings and shoes on as fast as I can. By the time I've rushed back out to the living room, John's pulled his suit shirt on.

"Have a day off," he tries to tell me, but I shake my head, fumbling with the lock at the door.

"My mother said people still need their bread. Shit," I exclaim, throwing my hands away and glaring at the stubborn lock.

John reaches past me and turns it free. He's right behind me as I run down the stairs, pulling my hair back with a ribbon as I enter the kitchen, flicking on the lights and washing my hands with soap.

"What can I do?" He asks.

I shake my head. "It's fine. You don't have to wait around."

"I made your mother a promise," he tells me. "Let me help."

His eyes are so blue, like the clearest ocean on a day at the seaside. Before them, I am powerless to argue.

"Measure out the yeast," I tell him. "You can do the bread. It'll be late, so I'll get scones going."

I knead my simpler, happier, dough, while John brings the bread mixture together with his hands.

"How long do I knead for?" He asks.

I flip the sand timer in front of him. "Until this runs out."

He lets out a low whistle. "Bloody hell. Alright."