Marguerite - A Thomas Shelby story

Chapter 16

"Miss Collins." Thomas Shelby cleared his throat and signalled to Marguerite to sit down. There were creaky wooden chairs scattered about a small rectangular table. It was sticky and stained, and the young woman's lungs were infested with the stuffy scent of the smoke and alcohol trapped within this small drinking booth. It was simple,  nothing fancy, just practical enough for conversation and entertainment.

She sat hesitantly, keeping her gaze on the used ashtray in front of her. Without a word, Thomas Shelby placed a glass in front of her. Whiskey, again. 

"Drink. You'll find yourself more talkative once you're warm." 

"I am warm," mumbled Marguerite. Clearly, she was not, since she'd elected to not change out of her cotton dress, and the bitter wind of the night had seeped through the cracks and crevices of the pub to plague her with a runny nose. 

"I told you to wear something different, didn't I?"

She lifted her eyes up to the figure on her left, the tall and broad shouldered man leaning against the wall of the booth, observing her through the cloud of smoke pouring from his mouth and nose. 

"I'd feel better if you sat with me, Mr Shelby. I'd rather it be like a conversation than an interrogation..." 

He scoffed, pointed at her and very slightly lifted his eyebrows.

"You're intimidated." 

"Aren't most people?" 

She sighed at his unreceptive attitude and fiddled with her bracelet. After a few seconds of silence, she lost her patience and took a sip of her whiskey. Instantly, Thomas Shelby grabbed his glass and strode over to sit opposite Marguerite. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"You're not like your sister."

Marguerite's head shot up; the mention of her sister peaked her interest.

"H-how so?" She questioned, leaning in slightly.

"You do as you're told," he said, a hint of amusement in his cold voice. 

Marguerite's hands fell back into her lap and she lowered her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. These men had no shame, no filter. They spoke their minds and seemed to find everything entertaining. 

"So, Miss Collins, you came here to see Polly?"

"And Olivia," added Marguerite in a whisper. 

"Hm." 

"What are they to you, Mr Shelby? Polly mentioned she knows you. Is she your Mother?"

Thomas belted out an unamused scoff, shaking his head.

"If she were my Mother, I wouldn't be leading the business. No, she may be the family anchor, but she's not my Mother."

"Your Aunt, then?" 

He nodded, drawing from his cigarette again, as his eyes stayed fixed on Marguerite's gaze. He no longer pierced through her gaze however; his eyes were softer, he seemed less tense and cold. Just slightly. 

"I've only heard a few things about you, Mr Shelby, but all I know is that you seem to have a certain effect on people..." 

"I'm a businessman who uses violence to take from your corrupt class, the wealthy toffs profiting off the abandoned low class. I place illegal racing bets, lie, cheat and kill people to earn money and grow my company. And you, Marguerite, who are you really?" His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table to bring himself face to face with the young woman. 

Marguerite swallowed, letting out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. His frankness and brutal honestly was extremely disarming. She was unsure whether to admire or fear him; perhaps both. The Peaky Blinders were able to hide in plain sight from the authorities by their mere insolence, and this man, Thomas Shelby, was the brains of every move of the company. 

"I-" she inhaled. "I'm the lost sister of Olivia Collins. I grew up with my Father and my Aunt in Cambridge. I study in Cambridge University where I met a woman named Galiya Graham, who I later learned was my Mother, formerly Galiya Collins, and as Polly told me at her funeral, formerly Galiya Jones. I believe my grandfather was Zachary Jones, a Peaky Blinder... I was born here in Birmingham, you know, Mr Shelby..." 

His face was unreadable as he got up and leaned over behind her ear, a hand on the back of her chair. She could feel his breath on her neck, just as she had with Arthur Shelby, but this was different. He had a distinct smell; he didn't smell like alcohol, he smelt of smoke, thick and heavy, of soft linen and earthy and pure coal. It was a strangely pleasant smell, and she daresay even comforting. It smelt like familiarity, like a new world, but also an old one, one that she'd known for only two days of her childhood and that she'd come back to visit. 

In a low voice, he said;

"Welcome home." 

She turned on her chair to face him, as he stood above her, and gave him a genuine smile. He returned a faint, thin smile and offered her his arm. She knew better than to refuse, so she obliged and slipped her hand through his arm, and together they exited the booth. A few dozen heads turned to observe the pair. The frail newcomer and the Blinder. 

"So she's uh, she's 'aight then, is she?" boomed Arthur, his eyes darting between his brother and the woman, as he sat sluggishly at the bar, a bottle in hand. John did the same, purposefully putting on a sappy expression. 

Thomas grunted.

"We're going for a walk," he stated. 

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A/N: sorry if it feels like a shorter chapter, i hope to keep updating more regularly! <3