Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Letter #8

December 1915

Miss Astor,

My name is Thomas Shelby. I am writing to you because my brother refused to put what I am about to say to you into his letter, as he does not wish to hurt your feelings. I, however, don't much care for hurt feelings after the horrors I've been seeing.

There's a few things that didn't add up. The decision to evacuate, after months of hearing that wasn't an option. The fact no other man here has successfully received whiskey from home, yet ours was waved through without so much as a second glance, nor was it rationed. The fact our regiment was singled out to be first on the evacuation ships.

I stole a look at Arthur's letters under cover of the night. Is it coincidence, then, that Brigadier General John Charteris, chief of intelligence for the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force and your uncle, provided the intelligence reports to General Sir Charles Monro, which made him give the evacuation orders?

Is it coincidence that this occurred at the same time you needed a favour of your family and left for New York to appease them in return, when from what Arthur says, that's an out of character action?

I do not want a reply. Tensions are heightened amongst us men, everyone's exhausted, and some are delusional to the point they think we would have won if we hadn't evacuated.

Just know you have my thanks. Both as a Sergeant Major, and as a brother. I don't know how Arthur would be coping if not for you, and I don't know how any of us would have stayed warm or sane without your care packages.

This is the last we'll speak of it.

- Thomas Shelby

P.S. The angle of photograph was fine. Your horse isn't a bad one, he just has a touch of calf knee on the left side. I'm glad my brushing advice helped. Do not hesitate to reach out for more of my help in the future.

***

Dearest lover of dawn (mental), biscuits (understandable), and John's portraits (bloody deplorable),

I am writing to you now from Egypt. We made it out of Gallipoli alive, by some bloody miracle. Had to bury too many good men before we got out of there, mind. Conditions here in the Suez Canal Zone are different, but not much bloody better. It's too hot and too fucking dry, and we had a sandstorm yesterday. My eyes are still burning. Add to that the flies and mosquitoes buzzing around every fucking night, it's not exactly the reprieve we were all expecting. But we're alive. No smell of stagnant water, or of the enemy's cigarettes barely a trench over. We might be attacked at any moment, but there's no enemy here for now. Thank the fucking lord for that.

My brother has certain, er, strange and obsessive theories about how it all played out. He's not the same anymore, I don't think. Made sergeant fucking major and all, but something's changed in him. Think it has in all of us. John's doing the best, and I reckon that's because he's a fucking machine gunner. Just wipes them out. There's talk among the ranks of sapper positions — digging tunnels and that. Tommy thinks we need to go for it. Reckons it would have helped in Gallipoli. I don't know about being so far beneath ground, though. Armed with explosives and all.

Don't you even entertain the thought you could be doing more to help me — you're above and beyond anything I expected or deserved. Still not sure how I got so lucky, and then you go and send whiskey and fucking cigars. I've told the men you're not royalty, and I tried explaining your House/Farm, but at this point half of them are convinced you're some secretly adopted-out daughter of the King, and the other half are pressing me for details on how they can get a lady as fine as yourself to write to 'em. I told them I haven't a fucking clue, but I did promise I'd ask you for tips to get them off my back, so do tell. Forget carpet and grapes, if you weren't royalty before, you sure are among everyone here.