Marguerite's hand stroked the letter. The ink was dry now.
She exhaled slowly, briefly closing her eyes and then looking up through the window to ponder for a moment. It was rare for Birmingham to be peaceful, quiet. It was Sunday today.
There was a pigeon, singing lowly upon a chimney above the opposite house, its feathers moving slightly with the calm, soft breeze. A breeze that brought freshness, a crisp air that did not smell of factories and dirt.
The young woman's eyes quickly scanned the letter again; her invitation to her Father. Her wedding. He would be disgusted, distraught, and he would bring Campbell and the police. And she would be waiting, with Tommy and everyone else. After a brief few minutes of sitting in a contemplative silence in front of the half opened window, she turned her attention to her mirror, stroking her light brown hair. It was growing back since she had impulsively cut it. She had wanted to look like Polly.
Now all she wanted was to get her revenge over and done with, and to enjoy her life with Tommy. With the Peaky Blinders.
Smiling, she turned to a sleeping Thomas Shelby. Marguerite held her head in her arms, leaning over the chair and admiring him in silence. She thought back now to when she had first met him, in the pub, over a year ago. How cold his eyes were, how stern his face looked. But also how elegant he was. His pale form lay in peace in the sun-kissed white sheets. It was not often that he found moments of peace, therefore Marguerite wished not to wake him up. Since the both of them had gotten together, Tommy was sleeping better, he was slightly less irritable. If only slightly. But still, it was an improvement, and Polly greatly praised it. Olivia and Arthur too, who were giddy at seeing the pair together.
His neat dark brown, almost black hair was now messy, strands falling onto his forehead. He slept with one arm above his face, the other unconsciously gripping the covers. Marguerite could only hope he wasn't having a bad dream. Of course, she greedily let her gaze linger onto his bare chest. He was strong, bulky. She felt how tight his muscles were whenever he held her. It made her feel safe as much as it made her feel desire.
Slowly, his weight began to shift. In a groggy growl, he muttered "Maggie" and the young woman eagerly strode over to his bedside, letting him bring a hand to her cheek, as he recalled that the wedding was in a week and a half.
"Everything is being prepared," he said, as Marguerite joined him to lay her head on his chest. "Your Father and his friends in the police force know that we'll be waiting for them. Now, this is our wedding," he exclaimed, "so we don't plan on letting them win. We'll give them a party to remember, but as for your Father, are you sure you're ready?"
Marguerite looked up, and brought her lips to his.
"I'll be fine, Tom. I need to do this, no matter how much it might hurt. My Father... I hate him, and he needs to go."
What was it about most men? Why were these cold-blooded gangsters the only men she trusted and loved? The rest of the men in this cruel world could rot for all she cared. Frank was gone, her Mother was gone, and with them her old self. All that was left of her was a passionate lover, entangled with a broken and ruthless man who understood the anger inside of her and her strength, her newfound unforgiving nature.
Apart from that one part of her. The part of her that remembered the little girl she was, who used to stroke the petals of the trees in her grand garden, wondering when her classy Father would come back from his journeys. The little girl who would stand shyly, swaying from side to side and she held Aunt Emmeline's hand, grinning up at her Father, who settled his tie and nodded approvingly at the patient and responsible young girl she was becoming. That was gone now.
"I'm ready, Tommy," she stated, with an unwavering voice, letting one tear fall on her cheek. She didn't know why, but she felt the rage, the eccentricity, the insanity. Her Father had to die. He was the reason Frank was dead. He was the reason she never got to grow up with a Mother. He was the reason she never knew she had a sister. He had taken away all the things she could have experienced: Love, Sisterhood, and having a Mother. Therefore, Marguerite, having unravelled the truth about her family's past, it was time to tie up loose ends and end this curse.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"It was Grand, Auntie. It was also terrible. I've never felt such a duality. Before I left for Birmingham, you told me not to get into trouble. I am the trouble, Aunt Emmeline. I am what the course of history made me. My Father deprived me of a Mother and a Sister, and he took away my Lover.
So it was my turn to return the deed. First I took his composure, his hope, when I kissed Thomas Shelby at the altar in front of him. He had barged in with a group of policemen and Inspector Campbell during the wedding. The crowd, all of us, were expecting them. We all smiled deep down. And Father froze. Their group just froze, and he was breathing heavily. I hadn't seen him since Frank Parsons' death. Me and Tommy were about to exchange our vows. Tom briefly smiled at me reassuringly. And I said "I do" and we were intertwined, once and for eternity.
Father's face was one of utter disbelief. He couldn't even look at Olivia either. Olivia... you remember her, do you not, Aunt Emmeline? My sister. The one who was taken from me. Along with my Mother. How could you let it happen? Your own family?
But -- why do I ask? Deep down I know. You loved my Father, yet he had chosen your sister. You shame my name. This family. You disgust me.
Despite all that, I have risen. Destiny is written in the stars for many, but not for me. It was written in the stars that Tommy and I should be star-crossed lovers only, but I cheated destiny, you see. Tommy and I are eternal lovers. He is my rock, my throne, my step towards infinite living.
And then we left the church. And once we were outside, I pulled out my Rose-carved pistol and shot Father right through the heart. Tommy was the one who taught me to shoot, did you know? He had taught me to hold it; that was the first time I'd felt his smoky breath on my cheek.
I thought I would feel horror when I pulled the trigger. But there's something about a broken relationship between a daughter and her father that is stronger than any other hatred. More than the hatred between a father and his son, for example.
I have learnt that a Father can never truly repair his relationship with his Daughter. Once she has been hurt once, she can never love him the same again. His betrayal wounded me so deeply that I could have torn him to pieces, both metaphorically and literally.
I felt slight terror, because I realised what I had done, but I felt relief. Usually revenge brings you nothing but emptiness, but revenge on family occasionally feels good. This was mine, and this is my story.
You will never see me again, because I am not Little Marguerite.
I am Maggie. I am a sister to Olivia, a daughter to my deceased Mother, a Lover, a wife to Thomas Shelby and co-director of Shelby Company Limited, an independent woman. But I am not and have never been a daughter to Matthew Collins. Or a niece to you.
Meeting the Peaky Blinders has taught me the true value of family, helping me realise that you were never true to me, nor could you ever be. It is with this letter that I announce Mr Collins' death and that I say my goodbye.
I have burnt the book The Tale of Roses. I know it was your favourite too.
I no longer have need for reminders of my old life. Those foolish fairy tales were for the young, naïve and dreamy girl. She is no longer of this world. I buried her six feet deep. Just like they did to my Mother. Me and Olivia's mother.
I hope this letter finds you well, for you have many years of contemplative loneliness ahead of you.
I am saddened that your betrayal led to us parting, but you can no longer be a part of my Life.
Marguerite SHELBY. "
"Marguerite, love?" whispered Tommy to the young woman, slipping his hands roughly and eagerly below her dress.
"This is my final letter," she exhaled, relieved, turning to face him. She grabbed his neck and pulled him in feverishly.
"You're finally free," he hummed, cracking a smile against her passionate kisses.
"I'm more than free, I'm flying," she answered.