It was summer, over a year after he had first laid eyes on Constance. During the past months he had watched her blossom visibly. She smiled a bit more and once in a while Grace made her laugh, this a sight and a sound Arthur enjoyed pretty much.
She always worked the late shift, most of the days accompanied by him. Whatever Tommy had in mind, he made sure that he was free to go in time for the closing hour of The Garrison's Pub. Arthur helped her to tidy up, and made sure that she came home safely. He got up in the morning, looking forward to the late night talk with Constance, living mostly for the time he could spend with her alone.
Constance sighed deeply, giving him a thankful smile. In his left hand he held a glass of whiskey for himself, in the other a cup of tea. This was his favorite way to end a day: taking a seat at a table, watching her in the dim light drinking her last cup of tea. They talked for about half an hour before he walked her home.
"Thank you, Arthur," she said, taking the cup out of his hand and placed it on a table. "Just give me a moment, I want ..."
He cleared his throat and stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"You did a very good job, love," he whispered, not able to hold himself back any longer. "It's enough for today."
His fingers massaged her surely sore shoulders gently, nonetheless he felt her tensing. Arthur took a deep breath before planting a soft kiss on her neck.
"Don't be afraid, Constance. You need not to be scared of me." He murmured, hoping she would believe him, hoping, he could believe himself, trust his own words.
"Arthur ...," she whispered, "I ... please, don't."
He took a step back, ending every physical contact. She stood still like a rock, head bowed, staring at the tabletop, her fingers searching hold at a chair.
He butchered it. Ruined everything he had, just because he couldn't keep his greedy fingers by himself.
"I know," Constance said in a low voice, not moving an inch, "I know men like ... it ... very much and I know that I should be thankful and that I owe you a lot and ..."
"No," Arthur interrupted her. "You owe me nothing. I just ..." He stopped talking as he didn't know what to say.
He shook his head, clenching his teeth, the anger started to boil, but this time the person he wanted to beat to death was Arthur Shelby himself.
"I like you, Arthur, really, I do. You'll surely consider me for a very ingrate, damnable person, but ... but as Carl died, I was ... happy. That's awful, isn't it?"
"No," he answered, but Constance didn't seem to hear him.
"I felt relieve that I would never be beaten up again, that I was free from fulfilling marital duties. Ten years I lived in permanent pain and I don't want to feel this pain again. I can only ask for some understanding, can I?"
She sobbed, breathing deeply, her hands fisting the skirt of her dress. Still she looked at the tabletop, and still he stood behind her like the idiot he was.
"Can you forgive me, Arthur? I really would like to make you feel good, but ... but it hurts just so much ...," she whispered and if his heart hadn't been broken yet, it had been broken at this point.
"Carl was an arsehole, a twat, love. He'd hurt you badly, I know," Arthur murmured. "But ... you know, there are other ways to ... to bed a woman."
"Other ways?"
"It doesn't hurt if a man does it right. It's the job and the duty of a man to make ... it good for a woman, to make her enjoy it as much as he enjoys it." Arthur struggled for words, didn't want to scare her with the vocabulary the men used in the dark environment he lived in. "That's why they call it love making, Constance. Does making love sound like something that hurt?"
She shook her head and he continued, stepping a bit closer, lowering his voice: "What Carl did was raping you. He never made love to you, right?"
"I ... I guess not. I don't know," Constance answered and again, Arthur placed his hands on her shoulders: "If you had experienced it only one single time, you would know the difference."
His fingertips petted her neck, and he noticed a tear on her cheek, brushed it away with his thumb.
"Do you know how to ... make love?"
"Yes," he breathed at her ear. "Yes, I do."
"Can you tell me?"
"Uhm, it's ... a lot about kissing and ... and gentle touching. Everywhere. There are spots on your body ... goddammit, it's difficult to explain ..." Arthur took a step back and reached for the glass of whiskey, emptying it with one big gulp. "I'd make you want me. I'd enter you not until you'd beg me to. If it's done right it's about ... being incomplete without the other. It's a need, seated deep in you, which only I can fulfill."
She nodded, but he felt that she'd only get a rudimental picture of what he'd wanted to say. Slowly, Constance took a seat.
"You mean there's a difference between what Carl did and what ... you would do."
"Yes," Arthur nodded, "a ... a big difference."
In his mind he heard the insinuating, ambiguous remarks the other member of the Peaky Blinders would make, a lot of dick jokes. But he was here with her, alone, discussing very intimate things, and for the first time he didn't miss the men and their bad jokes.
"Would you mind if I speak freely?"
"Not at all. If you don't mind if I answer freely?" Arthur replied, giving her an encouraging smile.
Constance shook her head, returning his smile.
"It hurts so much when a ... a ... this thing ...," she paused, blushed and shook her head: "I can't ... say it, I'm sorry."
Arthur nodded and asked: "A penis? When a penis is forced into your body?"
"Yes. This. I cried every time. How could I ever beg for this? I don't understand."
"You weren't aroused. Arousal makes every inch of your ... woman parts, your pussy, wet, warm, smooth and silky. If you're wet, it doesn't hurt, not even a bit."
"Pussy? That's what you call it?" She asked and Arthur nodded.
She took a sip of the tea, furrowing her brows while thinking about his words.
"No one told me how to ... feel arousal and to ... be wet."
"That's a man's job, his duty. To make sure his woman is ready for him."
"So, maybe Carl didn't know this?"
"He knew. He was just an arsehole, Constance, not interested in your well-being."
"How can you know?"
"A man, interested in your well-being, doesn't starve you, love. He doesn't discipline you for spilling a few drops of tea and he doesn't rape you."
She nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. Silence fell over the room and he gave her a smile as she lifted her head, looking him in the eyes.
"Did he ever kiss you? Really kiss you?" He asked, playing with his empty glass.
Constance shook her head.
"Let me be the one to show you how good a kiss can be, will you?"
"May I think about it?" She asked, getting up.
He nodded and sighed: "Time to call it a day, right?"
"Yes. Thank you, Arthur. For everything."
He gave her a small smile and sighed. This had been one of the most difficult conversations he'd ever led. It was incredibly difficult to explain peace and joy to a broken soul who learned to walk on a battlefield, who slept in blood-filled trenches and vegetated in the dungeons of another man's darkness. But he thought that he did a good job. A job, hopefully awarded with a sweet kiss, if he was a lucky guy.