Astor // Arthur Shelby x Reader - Peaky Blinders

Letter #15

August 1917

My moustache grower, foul taste drinker, and treason committer,

They are saying the battle is waging on in Passchendaele, and that the enemy forces are growing tired. They're saying you're fighting amazingly, and making progress even with all the rain and mud. I've sent more supplies, and included antiseptics and painkillers, along with another batch of warm clothing so you might be more comfortable in the conditions.

My heart swells with pride each time I hear of how well our army is fighting — knowing you are there, brave soldier, persevering through it all.

When you are next marching to a new location, know that I am walking beside you in spirit, with thirteen dogs following suit. Not that they'd form a neat and orderly line if their lives depended on it — we would probably be most disruptive.

I enjoy picturing you smoking your cigars when you get the chance. You refer to me being unhappy, and I must confess my unhappiness is only growing. Yes, my parents are still trying to marry me off, and it turns out Luca Changretta's parents live just in the city, and so my parents had been inviting them round for dinner more and more frequently. And then Luca himself came to visit them for a number of weeks — his parents were proudly proclaiming how clever he is for having ways of dodging the draft in America, it made me sick to my stomach — and our parents tried to force us into spending time together every single day. I made him rather miserable — or at least I hope I did — and refused to do much at all except tend to the horses and the farm while he tagged along. And then I began to feel rather guilty as the whole ordeal is no more his fault than mine, and so we went out for dinner, on my part just to silence my parents so they might stop pestering me and leave the whole thing be.

And while we were there, I felt... scared. We were surrounded by other Italian men. I couldn't understand much of what they all said, as some of it was in Italian and what was in English was spoken in a New York accent, but they all had guns and weren't afraid to show them. It was like being escorted across enemy lines as we walked through the city, and nobody would look me in the eye while I was with them. Luca himself was gentleman enough, at least on the surface, but I don't know... the whole thing felt very off.

I must apologise. You probably think me so foolish and cowardly, when you must be more than used to these things. It did make me wonder how I would feel if I were with you instead, and the other circumstances were the same. I think I would feel very safe indeed.

And speaking of safety, I am glad to hear your reassurances that you will be alright. I still worry, though. I think it is only natural. And it is a strange sensation, because while I know without a doubt that you are brave and strong enough to make it through, I still wish you didn't have to endure it. You speak of taking me in your arms when I am upset, but I worry that would be no good at all — under such a promise, I might have temptation to feel melancholy at all times, so that I might hold you and be held prevailingly.

I rather enjoy your image of being in bed in Sotheby House while I bring you breakfast with the dogs at my feet. Perhaps I shall have to open the place up as shelter once more when you return, and you can stay and rest and recuperate from the war. I'll bring you breakfast on a tray with a silver lid, but also a bottle of whiskey and a box of cigars. Each time you wish for a drink, or a cigar to smoke, I shall go to the trolley with the trays and lift a lid and bring you what you desire, and then return the rest back and place the lid back down again, purely because it seems to bring you so much joy.

Dear god, ways around policemen in your line of work? I worry now there'll be nothing stopping you from executing the men causing me grief in my life. And to hint at treason — dear soldier, this is a new level of wickedness, even for you. I am unsure if treason applies to the destruction of property signed by the King, but after I told Pauline you approved of her ideas, the framed letter has mysteriously vanished. My mother cried for almost three days and my father threatened to dismiss every member of staff until they found out who had done it, but in the end they decided such a large household is more important than a piece of paper when it comes to impressing guests.

Only marginally so, though, from what I gathered of their conversations.

And I definitely, absolutely, cannot put into writing that the same letter mysteriously turned up in my bedroom, with my parents' names crossed out and my own written in neat cursive, with the signatures of every staff member along the bottom.

To hear you are proud of me is the best praise in the world. On the farm we are growing potatoes, turnips, carrots, peas, beans, and oats. We also have a small chicken coop now for eggs, though I refused to fence off a chicken area at first, and they ended up pecking most of our corn crops. So I have now compromised, and they have a few separate hectares to run around and enjoy themselves, and our corn stands a chance of surviving yet. The manager keeps telling me we need a few cows or goats for milk to 'diversify', but the thought still makes me uneasy, as they need to be kept pregnant to continue producing and we would be overrun with them in a few short years. And it is so hard on their bodies. But May tells me many local farmers will often try to get rid of old goats or cows that have finished breeding, and they will often bear milk for a time, so that could be an option. I fear I would become too emotionally attached, though, and mourning them so greatly would be difficult if we are continually taking them in and then burying them when the time comes. If you have any advice on the matter, I would greatly appreciate it.

You have some very interesting ideas, brave soldier, about what does and does not permit entry to heaven. And rather hypocritical, coming from a man who will not leave his bed until the day is half finished. I believe the lord will mightily approve of my walking at dawn — I did try to find a bible verse that might prove it, but the book is just so bloody long I confess I gave up. I only hope he would approve just as heartily of me finishing the barrel of tea while I wait for you to rise. Because I, too, would hate to be apart from you, Arthur Shelby. I feel we have spent enough years apart already. And so I am willing to sacrifice my walks — for two years only. And I will still wake at the same time, and we will still walk at 7.30, just as you proposed. Two years flies by, as you rightly pointed out — but look at how much can change in that time. I am confident I can convert you to a man of the morning in six hundred days.

Far from turning my stomach or causing me to dread your letters, knowledge of such misdeeds among men and the terrible tonic they must drink to prevent them is nothing but fascinating. So I must ask — do men at war ever relieve themselves when such urges strike? It has painted rather a funny picture in my mind, you see, involving a man trying to do so while also holding a loaded shotgun at the same time. Perhaps John could draw a picture of it.

And once more, brave soldier, I am wondering how much you tell me is true and how much in jest, for if I have truly caused you to drink the magic potion yourself, I will feel both guilty and victorious. I cannot help but feel such a drink might come in useful even when not fighting in a war. Especially for women, who are told we are not to have any such urges, and that if we do we are terrible human beings. And if you truly are growing the moustache once more, perhaps you'll need to send me some so I can concentrate on our conversations and not any other images that may cross my mind. And if you truly are going to tease me with such knowledge, perhaps I'll send you a photo of myself after all, fit of even a page nineteen girl — and then we can both suffer with our bitter tasting tonic together.

While you are packing such a home into your frame, (and though it may be yet another lingering sensation, I find myself most curious and trying to picture how exactly your frame might look), be sure to include your racecourse and your pub and all the hunting rifles you can think of. For treason and bad men only, never animals.

I carry you with me too, Arthur Shelby. In my thoughts, in every moment of every day.

And just in case the military postal service extend their field of whoopsie-daisies into an entire forest of them, I shall wish you a Merry Christmas now, and hope you find my gift enclosed. Do not open it until Christmas Day if you can help it. I hope it brings you some happiness and comfort.

Yours, in every sense of the word,

Astor. (Wicked thought thinker, dawn-riser, and foul taste requirer.)