March // John Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Chapter 30

I've finished bathing, wrapped in a towel when Arthur knocks on the door.

"Fresh clothes," he tells me, averting his eyes as he places a shirt and pair of trousers on a stool. "They might be a bit long, but I'm a scrawny fucker, so they should fit you with a belt."

I smile softly. "Thank you, Arthur."

"Tommy wants to see you," he says. "Head downstairs just... whenever you're ready."

Dressed in his long grey trousers and white shirt, with my hair hanging loose across my back, I head downstairs and find Tommy waiting for me.

"Come on," he tells me. "We're going to the docks."

I swallow the bubble in my throat as we arrive. "You're not going to kill me for knowing too much, are you?" I ask.

His eyes light up in amusement. "Not today." He pulls a pistol free from his coat pocket. "I'm going to teach you to shoot a gun."

He walks me through how to load the bullets, how to load one into the chamber, and then he sets up a row of clay figures in front of us. He points, shoots, and smashes one to dust.

"Looks easy enough," I say in a shaky voice.

It's not Tommy who answers, but another voice from behind us. "You'd be surprised."

I feel my face light up when I turn and see John. He's walking towards us with two shotguns slung over his shoulders.

"She's not going to be carrying one of those beneath her coat," Tommy points out.

"And she'll never need to," John says, placing the guns down. "As she's never walking around alone again. But if you're stuck," he tells me, "and you need to shoot, I want to know it's going to fucking hurt."

I smile at him. Tommy rolls his eyes and slinks away, lighting a cigarette as he leans against the bonnet of his car.

"You remember this from the carnival?" John asks me. "It's slightly different. These aren't bullets, they're shells, and they are larger, see."

I take one from his fingers and load the shotgun. It's heavier than the one from the carnival, and I have to put all my strength into it.

"I shouldn't have left the house," I say to him quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"It's alright," he tells me.

"I only wanted to get my drawing things."

He glances at me as I aim down the sight of the shotgun. "What were you going to draw?"

I hold my breath. I fire. The clay explodes.

"Good work," Tommy calls from the car.

"My father," I tell John. I find myself unable to look at him. "And speaking of, I need to get home. In case my mother calls."

"No bread today?" He asks.

I squeeze the trigger and hit another pot of clay. "We don't have to open on Sundays. It's getting a bit late for bread-making now it's getting light, anyway."

"She's a natural," Tommy says, walking back and placing a hand on my back after I shoot the last clay figure. "Don't know what you were so worried about, eh?"

John waits until Tommy's busy cleaning up before speaking to me. "This gun's yours," he tells me. "You don't need a certificate for it, not like with pistols. You don't have to keep it at your house." He runs a hand across his jaw. "You can keep it at mine. If you want."

I nod at him. "Won't the kids get into it?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "Polly gave me a talking-to when Finn got into one of mine. We store them more securely now."

I roll my eyes at him and he grins as we head back to the car.

Tommy drives us to my place, pulling up outside. I see a neighbour's curtain twitch at the sight of his car — of such opulence — at the bakery.

And when I see Mama standing at the front door, I exhale a sigh of relief.

"She's home," I breathe, getting out of the car.

I walk up to her and fling my arms around her. She has dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her face is lined with worry.

But when she holds me by the shoulders and examines me, her face turns thunderous.

"What have you been doing?" She asks, examining the swollen bruising across my eye and cheekbone.

"It's nothing," I tell her, ducking my head.

"Mrs March," John says, removing his hat.

She rounds on him in fury. "You said you would look after my daughter. What happened?"

"It wasn't him," I say. "It was nothing to do with John... I don't know who it was. But I have a guess." I swallow before voicing the suspicion that's been brewing. "I think the headmaster from the school is behind it."

They both glance at me in surprise.

"That is a serious accusation," my mother says.

But John's deep in thought. "I'll look into it," he tells me.

"Don't get yourself hurt," I whisper. "Not on my account."

He brings a hand to my cheek and rubs his thumb softly across where I'm sore. He says, "If he's the one who ordered you hurt, I'll do to him what I want."

Mama clears her throat and we break apart, both glancing awkwardly.

She smiles at John. "May I ask when you are going to make an honest woman out of my daughter and marry her?"

I stare at her in horror as John ducks his head. "Mama, no," I say. "You've got... that's not..."

But she's not letting John get off so easily, crossing her arms as she waits for a response.

"I cannot marry your daughter, Mrs March," he says. "With my line of work, she would be in danger."

"And yet she's already coming home covered in bruises," Mama says.

John takes a breath. "It won't happen again. I promise."

I'm stunned by his words. It sounds as though he's even given the matter any thought. As though he's had the same plaguing dilemma as I, wanting desperately to be together, and unable to act on it.

Is this why he asked me to be his mistress? Could it be that he cares for me deeply, beyond just wanting to sleep with me, and has his own reasons for not doing it?

Has he considered the possibility of marrying me before ruling it out?

It doesn't matter, I scold myself. Even if he dropped to one knee right now, I would not be able to accept. And if I confessed to him the truth, that I am defective in producing children, he would change his mind anyway.

I am a mix of feelings hurt, feelings hopeful, and feelings surprised. But my mother shouldn't be having to deal with this. Not after what she's just been through.

And I should be mourning Papa.

I clasp my hands around her elbow. "Come on, let's go inside."

I risk a glance at John, and there's something inextricable in his gaze that makes me want to cry. Some hurt, some longing or regret, that I do not have time to decipher.

He nods to me. "Miss March."

It takes everything in me to hold my composure as I reply. "Mr Shelby."