Nothing Will Change

Chapter 7

The next morning she was still thinking of him. How he spoke, how he watched her as though if he took his eyes off her she would disappear. Even down to the faint cloud of smoke left when he walked out, she thought of him. All night, and into the next morning. Rose was certain there was a permanent red tinge to her cheeks. She read him without hesitation, without concern of how her words would be taken by a man like Tommy Shelby. And was it a mistake? Was it inappropriate to speak of him in such a way, to label his love as if she knew him completely? But if it was the truth she spoke of, than what did it mean for the two for them?

It did not help that she knew nothing of him. Not of his favourite food, or his life before the war and how he has changed. All she knew was from what she heard, or what she had guessed of him. He was closed like two ends of an alleyway, so mysterious and unforgiving, it takes a second before you're lost in him. And she scrapped off the posters on the brick walls trying to decipher the code that was him, but it was all dripping from the rain that soaked his jacket. Impossible to read, even if she cracked the surface. Rose wanted to keep digging, she wanted to know him. Not to know him as a passer by and the man who enters her presence, but as more than that.

Vicariously picturing herself in the dress she sewed for Grace at home was not ideal. But making it for her in the beginning was not likely to make her feel anything other than envy. Though it was business, she was still going to the races with him, and wearing a dress that would make all men swoon. However unsatisfying it may be, Rose worked on the dress as if it was the only task she had to complete, which was not true with the work Richard was providing. She enjoyed her work for him, so she could never complain. Her disturbance came by a knock on her door, crisp and clean, Rose frowning as she put down her needle.

"Just coming," she informed whoever was outside the door, brushing down her soft dress. Met with Ada and another lady much older than she was, although still beautiful, Rose stumbled over her words for a moment. It seemed more Shelby's knew where she lived than perhaps is normal.

"Hello Ada," she smiled "I'm sorry, I'm Rose, you must be-"

"Polly Gray," the woman looked her up and down with her arm slipped through Ada's "oh I see it now," she smirked to Ada who shook her head.

"Excuse me?" Rose flicked her eyes between the two, Ada rolling her eyes and whispering something to the woman's ear.

"We're having a day out, and I wanted to see if you could come with us," Ada said not quite confidently "I'm not keeping it, we're heading to Cardiff today. I wanted you there as comfort."

Widening her eyes, Rose hummed as she turned to the woman with her hand still through Ada's arm. Her demeanor was as though she was sizing Rose up, analysing her through her low pulled hat. And that alone made Rose blush.

"I thought you were sure on keeping it," she moved her eyes back to Ada, Polly appearing as though she wanted them to finish talking.

"We can talk about it on the way, come on," Ada gave her a look that almost desperate and made Rose agree, easily wanting a break from her dress making. Every pattern of red was reminding her of him, his entire disinterest in talking until he wanted to know her dreams. Why did he want to know her dreams? What would Tommy Shelby get out of such an intimate topic? It was not like him to pry. She knew that. But when he asked, the words slipped away as though they were meant for his ears. Perhaps that was his goal, that was his way of understanding her. If so, why would he not demand the information? Why would Tommy hesitate when every look he gave her was precise enough to be mistaken with a sniper, and enough to perplex her own intimacies.

She followed the two women easily, falling into step beside them all three looked to belong together. In her light beige dress she was angelic, hair tumbling down her back. Polly captured her eyes and a knowing look was what Rose could see. Knowing that was similar to when her mother could always tell she fancied someone, or when her father knew she had been sneaking treats to the horses. Because Polly saw it, the glow so recent she knew he had gone to see her when he ran out into the night the previous day. It glazed her eyes as she daydreamed, thinking of him. And for all her years Polly wanted to feel it, to feel what Rose was feeling. What she did not know she was feeling.