Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Letter #13

January 1917

Dear my Bravest of Soldiers, illicit thinker and boat-hook-fighter,

I cannot believe this is the third year in a row we have failed to wish each other a Merry Christmas. I believe a whole field of whoopsie-daisies may be the case at this point, though I cannot be cross with the military postal service, as without them, we would have never begun writing to each other. And so I shall put a great deal of trust in them with this package of supplies, including three bottles of whiskey and more cigars than a chimney could smoke, on top of the necessities.

I have been so worried and filled with concern for your safety, when finally I received your letter, Lucille had to prepare me a large pot of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge before I could even begin to calm down. What a hero you truly are, digging below ground like that in such conditions. I do hope they are paying you well for it, though I'm told each man's sum is paltry, and I imagine it would never be a fair trade regardless.

As we have established neither of us are particularly superstitious, I was determined not to let the lack of well-wishing spoil this Christmas as it had the last, and so I decided to anger my family in the best possible way by volunteering Sotheby House to take in wounded soldiers for their recovery before they were sent back to Europe. I met many brave men, though none of them my brave soldier as you are. Most of them had fought in the Somme, and there were a few Australians who had been in Gallipoli, and it filled me with great pride to talk about how you had fought at both yourself, too.

My parents loathed the presence of so many people without an aristocratic title to their name, but of course now they are being lauded for their generosity they have begun to say it was their idea in the first place. The King's office even sent a letter of praise. My mother has hung it up in the hallway. Pauline keeps threatening to 'misplace' it when she takes it down for dusting, but I don't think she really would. And I don't care about the praise or attention for such deeds. Perhaps I just have a special place in my heart for soldiers, now that I know you.

I have sent extra prayers for every man who died wearing the socks I sent, and in fact, for every man killed so far in the war. It is so devastating. May isn't coping so well. I have to go and visit her a few times a week, or I worry she'd have no other human interaction at all. She's rattling around in that big old house almost entirely on her own. She wouldn't even see the horses for months. I think she's doing better now, though. I hope I should never know how it feels to lose someone I care for so deeply. So don't you go getting buried in any tunnels, Arthur Shelby.

Your safe return back to England once all this fighting has finished is all I can ask for. Though I will not refuse a new horse, or a morning's rise at dawn, nor would I be so monstrous as to turn down a litter of Saint Bernards. I would look quite the picture, though, especially once they are fully grown — I would have no less than thirteen dogs trailing behind me everywhere I go.

Yes, only thirteen. Pip sadly left us for heaven shortly before Christmas. And all that time I spent worrying about Rudy... Pip deteriorated so quickly, almost overnight. I cannot speak of it in any detail or I will cry again. Sometimes it feels as though the tears will never end, and I am not usually one for crying. I think what breaks my heart the most is how the other dogs don't understand, and they constantly look for Pip.

So please, when you speak to their photographs next, tell Pip he is sorely missed and wholly loved by us all.

How interesting to know you do not protest John referring to me as your wife, even if the falsehood of it does bother you. I do not mind in the slightest — John may call me whatever he pleases. If it brings a smile to your face, may he say it non-stop.