Slowly and profoundly, like the germination of something hardier after the temporary colors of spring, I have felt the directives of my incomplete mission with the Peaky Blinders shifting. Rooting me earth deep in the notion that my life may once again be my own to spend or squander as I so choose.
O'Connell has taken my arm at some point after exiting our car, steering us across a street flooded with water, carriages and motorcars. If I had not already spent weeks within the confines of opulence perhaps the grandeur of the Langham Hotel might not be so lost on me.
A doorman allows us entry, and I am only vaguely aware of sleek marble pillars, the bustle of bellhops, and the gilded glow of chandeliers soaring high above.
We cross the soft-lit lobby, the tumult of rain and Regent Street fading behind us, and it feels as if I have truly been stripped of all other orders and obligations; as if I have passed through some invisible easement and my only remaining directive has become personal:
Stitch together the seams of your battered heart with rest and care, Agent Burgess. However you see fit to carry out the mend.
We turn through an archway and climb a staircase against the traffic of descending guests, velvet steps pooling out towards balustrades of smooth granite and planters filled to bursting with lemon-yellow flowers.
Irises, I realize, attention sharpening on the landscape, my stomach flipping oddly. My favorite flowers.
It seems a sign somehow, as if I have finally been allowed to find less madness in another thought which has been chasing me for weeks. Without legitimate reason or warning, the idea of Inspector Campbell as anything more than a supervisor and a family friend now seems validated in this small, fated way.
We wind up several more floors and mount a new landing, my hand almost reaching out to caress the petals of an overhanging bloom. It glistens from its morning watering, the loveliest of its many sisters. O'Connell draws his arm from mine and I pause, turning to examine him instead.
"Down this corridor, take a left at the end, and then room three forty-two will be on the left. It's hard to miss, on account of the policemen."
He sets my suitcase down, something like an apology in his tight smile. "I'd walk the rest of the way with you but then I'll use up my three visits today, and the Inspector's asked me to run a few more errands."
"Three visits?" I question, grounding myself fully in the present. "Is the situation truly that dire, to require visitation limits?"
He waits for a couple to pass, nodding at them politely. "I'm sure he'll explain it all to you, Grace, as I'm sure I will see you again. Take care."
Before I can question him anymore he is already skipping down the staircase behind me, slipping past the slower-moving guests with noticeable haste. His retreat is so similar to our brief, chaotic moments on the train, that I back against the bannister. My hands tighten on the railing, holster cinching against my ribs with each puffing breath.
Threats remain legitimate then. Even here. Even now.
Voices filter up from the lobby below, echoing like so many songs of potential and hope. The sounds are too commonplace for my renewed trepidation. The babble is soft and soothing, merging with the aroma of floral arrangements and verdant shrubs to create an intoxicating balm. It smells like ignorance, sweet and cloying. Like another, simpler life.
A new, limitless day lies ahead of you, Grace – out there, in some safer corner of the world.
I try to imagine the thought is true for a long, shuddering moment, entertaining the idea that I am standing in the same sort of limbo as these strangers – just as carefree and transitory and ready for opportunity, despite all the troubles which still cling.
Pushing away from the staircase, I make myself walk through the corridors O'Connell directed me down. Forcing myself not to glance over a shoulder or palm the pistol below my breast.
Sconces warm the beige wallpaper to cream, casting halos of light along the ceiling. Tucked into decorative alcoves, bouquets of white roses stand full and pristine in crystal vases, like puffed-up soldiers at attention. Each doorway I pass remains angular and calm, without any reaction to my quickening breath.
The turn comes too soon and I halt after making it, suddenly conscious of how I must appear – a woman with an overnight bag in hand and no escort to be seen.
How presumptive and unseemly, some sliver of propriety admonishes before my greater anticipation bowls over the thought.
I want to see him. The rest doesn't matter.
It is a notion beyond deliberation now, even as all the reasons for feeling so are either carefully contrived or still hidden from my understanding. It is too much like peering into a mirror and finding only the blurred outline of my reflection – to harbor this undefinable longing.
A pair of coppers stand outside a doorway several meters down hall. I feel their attention shift in my direction, as they assess me with blank stares. Friend or foe or guest, they must wonder. They are both massive men, with unflinching regards and brutal brows, but I make myself walk towards them instead of retreat. Embarrassment blooms on my neck, strange and feverish.
"I'm here to visit Inspector Campbell," I manage crisply, stopping between the two statues.
"Your name, Miss?"
"Grace Burgess. A former employee of his. He requested my visit."
They only examine my face but the left officer asks, "What's in the bag?"
My gaze snaps to his, affront flaring despite the truth. "My things, Sir. I'm traveling today."
"We'll need a look." The other steps toward me, reaching for the handle. "And we'll also need to check your person."
My fingers twitch as the copper tugs the suitcase from me but I acquiesce, crossing my arms instead.
My coat is only a temporary shield for the slender pistol Campbell slipped into my lap so many months ago. I can almost feel the heft of it pulsing against my skin, even though the holster separates us. I fear for it now. It's too easy to confiscate, as the gun has never been registered and I've the misfortune of being born female.
The man with my suitcase swings the bag away, popping the latches on a nearby table while the other copper saddles close.
"Arms up, Miss."
He starts patting along my shoulders before I've granted him the permission to do so, his fingers becoming less than delicate as he jerks my arms wide to skim underneath them... drawing closer to the holster strapped against my ribs.
"This isn't necessary, Sir. If I could just speak to the Inspector–"
The door swings inward behind him, as if I've somehow summoned the man himself.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" Campbell growls.
The two officers continue to exact their duties as my former supervisor glares between them, his shoulders thrown back, fists balled at his sides.
Something near a laugh escapes me at the thunderous look on his face. It's as if I'm seeing a storm again after so much draught. He's a rumbling, quenching vision.
His hand slams down on the lid of my suitcase, wrenching it off the table before his other palm captures mine.
"As I've told you all morning, Agent Burgess can bring a pack of grenades and a Browning into this suite if she so desires!"
He swings me into the open doorway as he speaks, and I barely glimpse the face of a bemused maid up hall, starring at us like we're a pack of street performers.
"And as we've told you, Inspector, our orders supersede your wishes. We need to check–"
"Check it on the way out!" Campbell bellows, crowding in behind me and compressing the door shut.
I step backward, over floorboards and carpet. Into a space which seems to stretch, cave-like and dim. Thuds echo against the oak barrier and the copper grows muffled, "Just a minute of her time..."
But Campbell is already forcing the slider lock into place, hefting my suitcase in hand. There is a slight hitch to his step as he reaches for a cane propped nearby.
So he was shot there. In the leg.
The thought pierces me, like the wild and searching look Campbell is assessing me with.
I want to see the injury, I realize, regarding his leg critically. I want to trace and languish over the scar of it – over the pain he has likely endured to secure my escape – for I'm so sure he has hurtin my absence... in ways beyond the physical if my intuition proves correct.
"I don't think they like you," I murmur, turning my attention to the door shuddering behind him.
His gaze matches the brutal rain thrumming against the suite window. Cobalt and slate and all-consuming. Crashing against every part of me before returning to my face, the vaguest hint of disappointment there.
"They are a curse I can't yet get rid of." His cane thumps against the floorboards as he comes closer, tone fading into tenderness. "My dearest Grace... you came."
"If I had known more, if I had been able…"
It's too difficult to convey, the breadth of my guilt. It rises up like a choking cloud of smoke, bringing old memories with it. My efforts in Birmingham have long felt negated by my misjudgment of Tommy, and from that monumental mistake spiral so many other offenses...
Being unable to help Campbell and the policemen at the train station looms too large for words.
He seems to understand somehow, gently guiding me across the room and into an armchair by the window.
The crippling urge to look away seizes me as he eases into the wingback opposite mine, and I turn to examine the rain instead. It is a silvery curtain against the glass, dulling the richness of the room to grey, muted tones. It feels like I've finally found that safer cocoon; as if the elements of light and sound have agreed to soften their powers in this secluded place.
"I wish I had been there." I say.
"Not having you there was essential," he urges, leaning forward. "You were right to board that train. I should have put you on it sooner."
I resolve to ignore his platitudes, pressing on before shame threatens to prevent me.
"I wish I hadn't come to your door, that night." I exhale, feeling all of the remorse which has plagued me these long weeks gather like a ball of sickness. "It was cowardly and selfish and beyond forgiveness to draw you and the other officers into a feud of my own making. I cannot express... when I was told two men died..."
His hands reach across to envelop mine, softer than I remember but just as firm. "There is nothing to forgive, Grace. The onslaught was coming, whether you had warned me or not."
My head shakes, as if I might push away the notion. It is too terrible to give face, the idea of absolution; the thought that I am not at all to blame.
"What were their names?"
Campbell takes a deep breath, his thumbs drawing circles against my skin. "Constable Walter Hayes and Sergeant Ernest Doherty. Good men, of my own choosing when I was assigned to Birmingham. They are to be honored at the ceremony, along with the other officers lost in the line of duty that night."
There is so much I do not know. So many names and faces I have not even begun to grieve for. The thought makes my breath hitch.
Too close... it skims too close to my own experiences of war. Too near to the losses I sustained then.
How can anyone ever come to terms with such unnecessary violence?
I pull my hands away from him, back into my lap. The weight of the unknown terrifies me, yet I make myself ask.
"Please, tell me everything."
The street is more like a receding river now, as the storm begins to break. I have risen to watch it for well on an hour, as Campbell picked through his narrative. At times, it felt like he was navigating a mine field, heaping extraneous details atop the worst moments before finally detonating the bombs beneath.
He's explained the fallout of the platform shoot-out: how he and another officer commandeered a car and tried to drive directly to the department, only to be sidetracked by a string of shop fires and lootings along the way. The citizens had come out in droves, to either add to the clamor for civil revolution, to join in on the violent pursuits, or to save their own businesses and homes from ruin.
"Madness. It was complete madness," Campbell has said.
Even more difficult to comprehend, within the span of the same night, he has availed me of the attempted weapons robbery at the police department. From within, someone detonated several bombs to clear a way through the main gate and understaffed garrison. A number of Peaky Blinders then infiltrated and reached the cache, if only to find it chained against the bars of a holding cell. The time required to dismantle such a hindrance proved too much, while the time granted the surviving coppers to rally on the floor above was just enough.
"I could have killed him, Grace." Campbell murmured at the very end of the account, almost in disbelief. "Negotiations ended and the shootout began, and then one of them managed to hit me. The men pulled me back but we still had them surrounded... and I could have ordered the lower cell block blown in... I almost gave into the finality of it, to have the whole retched hive of them done in... Only your words, Grace... your words prevented me."
I've felt no validation for suspecting such a scheme from Tommy. Rather, there is a tragic sense of waste. The brilliance of a mind enthralled in criminal enterprise has been squandered beyond reason. Why he would stir the streets to chaos, if only to reclaim stolen property, still alludes me. It's as if I never understood him at all.
Vainly, I've wondered if my refusal had anything to do with such recklessness... In the same diverting moment, I've also felt the overwhelming renewal of my regard for the Inspector. I can hardly breathe for it.
He listened to my fears. He believed me.
The sum of information is far greater than I thought I'd be allowed, but the words have yet to cling. The story hangs about me like the fog of someone else's nightmare.
Above the calamity and intrigue of it all there is also a choice, pulled taunt between Campbell and I, urgent yet unsaid – the place where he last left me, on the train.
The drenched traffic of Regent Street becomes more visible the longer the silence stretches. Cars jostle and gain speed in the calm; pedestrians pick careful, puddle-free paths; umbrellas bob down the lane like flocks of black dirigibles.
I press my finger nails into the tacky layers of windowsill paint. "Do you think they truly believe the reports of your death?"
Campbell rises, his clothes rustling as he comes to stand behind me. Close and comfortable, as if he might whisper some new facet of a mission into my ear.
"We can both attest to the tenacity of Thomas Shelby. He will not deter until knowing for certain."
The way he says Tommy's name has changed. There's a sureness and a finality about it, as if he has somehow managed to pack away the unsavory memories.
I envy such disregard.
"His family will try to carry out whatever vengeance he asks of them."
"I would almost be insulted if they didn't," he intones, breath close to my neck. "Apparently, a group of men have already seen fit to exhume my decoy grave. They scattered bullets over the mangled corpse. One, I'm told, was etched with my name."
"A warning." I whisper, watching water droplets condense and form rivers on the glass. "Churchill should have assigned you more security."
"Two are burden enough." He growls, the sound curling around the base of my spine. "They attract more attention than they deter. It would almost be better to travel alone."
I cannot completely disagree with the sentiment. The pair are like twin Goliaths, out of place in any setting. What strikes me more, however, is the invitation in the last notion – the slightest layer of suggestion which continues to thrum between us.
Alone or accompanied, when he departs for America?
It is such an absurd, secondary concern to give face, but the itch of it now brings warmth to previously tepid waters. I'm unable to ignore the pull. Something has changed and matured… in ways I don't yet understand, nor can wholly articulate.
Part of me wants to believe it is simply the misguided remains of a desperate need to retain familiarity; for a continued closeness with the only person who loved my father as I did.
Another, stranger part wonders at the memory of stumble against my cheek... at the unresolved, fervent pressure of large hands around my waist. At a man willing to forgo violence for a woman's continued admiration and wellbeing.
"If it's as you suspect, if you believe the Shelby's would truly canvas the ceremony for you, then you should keep the guards all the closer." I nibble on the pad of my thumb. "Do you think those two will abandon you, when you make for a train instead of the War Office?"
"I've dealt with their type before." Campbell says shortly. "They are as good as guard dogs, paid to bark at danger and follow wherever I lead. Don't fear for me, Grace. It is your own safety we need to discuss now."
It is the only information he has avoided so far – the repercussions of my involvement with Thomas Shelby. I inhale deeply, but he speaks first.
"If I recall correctly, your uncle and his family are your only remaining relatives in London?"
"Yes," I say carefully, hesitant to discuss them further for fear of unkindness. Eloise's shrill insults are still too fresh. "I've been staying with them since the night I arrived."
"And what of your family in Ireland? There was an aunt, correct?"
Wariness flares. I wonder at his intent now, the threat of an unknown driving a tightness through my chest.
"Yes, I have an aunt, another uncle, and several cousins in Galway, but I haven't spoken with them in months. Why?"
"I cannot leave England without first settling the question of your welfare." He explains, resting his hands on my shoulders. "I've been granted the additional resources I requested. Wherever you choose to reside, while the threats against you remain legitimate and near at hand, I need to ensure you will be afforded a professional security detail at all times."
He's changed his mind, I realize. At some point this afternoon, he has regretted what he wrote in the letter. He means to leave me. To take up the post in America as ordered, without the burden of me at his side.
My gaze darts over the scene of the street below, chin lifting to finally assess the reflection of him, standing like a figment behind me.
The hurt and disappointment of being regarded as nothing more than a loose end to be taken care of seems to shatter the combination of our visages.
I've become a footnote to his time in London. What has made him decide against me?
I shrug out from under his hands, leaning heavily against the windowsill. Trying to breathe vigor and independence back into my lungs. Fighting the betraying, accursed tears that threaten to blind me.
You've always taken care of yourself. You can do it again.
I will the words to take hold, to suppress the ridiculous ideas that I have foolishly allowed into my already-fragile heart.
"Grace, what's wrong? How have I upset you?" Campbell's voice is shaken but I strive to ignore it. "You can of course stay elsewhere – anywhere you feel most comfortable... I only advise against towns near Birmingham or along the canal way..."
I blink several times, drawing myself tall. I'm almost composed again.
"No, my uncle's home is adequate. I have been safe there these past weeks and would hate to inconvenience you unnecessarily, Mr. Campbell. Your situation sounds more serious than my own; you should hire more guards for your voyage."
I turn to him, taking his hand one last time. It is a struggle to remain pleasant and warm, while a portion of my being is so averse to parting; still reeling from the sudden shift in perspective.
"Thank you for inviting me here and for explaining everything. For letting me see you again before leaving the country. I wish you every happiness in Boston, truly."
I squeeze his fingers, pulling my gaze away from his baffled expression. His feigned concern at my sudden departure is too much, and I move to step around him.
His arm prevents me, gentle yet firm, holding me like I am a mare in need of calming. Pulling me to him, shushing and cradling, as I go still against his chest.
"No, please, Grace. Explain this to me – this, this change. If I have offended you, if you do not want to stay with your family, tell me. But don't just leave, not like this."
The tremor in his voice, the unmistakable, aghast confusion of it, finally takes hold and I make myself speak again.
"It is kind of you to offer assistance but I am fine. I will be fine. Don't worry for me."
I turn my face away from his quiet, downcast scrutiny, feeling another rush of embarrassment bloom across my cheeks. I've never felt so obtuse – so blatantly wrong about another's desires.
"I won't leave London until you're safe and well, Grace." His words feel like a promise rather than placation, as they brush against my forehead. "Tell me what to do. Help me understand."
"You're too kind..." I whisper, wishing I had been more aware from the start of our visit, instead of anticipating an end that would never come.
Did he decide when he first saw me? Have I truly changed so much? I remember every waspish comment Eloise has ever made about my figure and complexation.
"Only for you, and not nearly enough." He rushes on, shifting his weight to set his cane aside. "Let me secure your happiness and welfare, however you see fit."
I'm too close to saying something I may regret now – to ruining what little dignity I retain.
"Please," I urge, "I have taken up too much of your time. You should be planning the details of your long journey, and I should be going."
He releases me slowly, as if the shattered fragments of my being may fall to pieces on the carpet. I half-believe they will, but manage to stand unaided, some remnant of my agent's training holding me aloft and impassive. I force my eyes to match his own as he speaks.
"No, it seems I have intruded upon your own time. I'm sorry for keeping you... for still harboring my selfish desires despite your change of heart..." He hesitates before reaching to reclaim the cane. "If you'd feel more comfortable, I can have O'Connell visit this evening and make the arrangements himself.""
His terse resignation settles strangely, as if he has had his own revelation. He blinks, shaking his head and glancing away. The words echo in the soft space, making me question, making me wonder...
…his selfish desires? My change of heart?
Some boldness overtakes me, fueled by the tiniest burst of hope and an overwhelming exasperation. I'm sick of manipulations and over-analyzations. Reading people without actually hearing their thoughts was my former life.
I should strive for answers in this new one, not second guesses.
"How do you believe my heart has changed, Sir?"
He looks anywhere except directly at me, careful with his words. "We needn't discuss it, and I wholly understand. It is clear to me now that your feelings are no longer the same... in light of this."
He thumps the cane on the floor, cursing the instrument with both voice and action.
My mind is blank for a long, heart-wrenching, impossible moment.
For I've been wrong. So wrong.
"You think... you believe your injury has changed how I feel about you?" I cannot help the bubbling disbelief of my tone, nor the grin which threatens. It's too ridiculous.
The sound and sight of both whip his attention to me, his brows gathering like clouds over the storm in his eyes.
"There's no need to ridicule me for it," he barks, shifting to turn away. "I would have expected–"
"Stop," I interrupt, reaching out. Stepping close again, back into his sensory bubble of bergamot and freshly laundered cotton and masculine warmth. "I think we have both misunderstood each other. I've been upset by your impending departure, nothing else."
He stiffens as I take his free hand, tracing the broad pad of his thumb, then the creases of his palm, waiting for the truth to dawn on him as well. I don't trust my voice yet, for fear of its waver.
"And you accuse me of being too kind?" He gripes, insult still in his tone though he does not pull away. "There is no need for these niceties. I will understand your new reservations with the benefit of reflection and time… though I will not pretend to accept them now… you're a torment, you must know."
I almost laugh again yet refrain somehow, dipping my head forward, for his explanations are so far off the mark. Confusion over my own desires and his assumed detachment has led me completely astray.
"You're a torment yourself, Mr. Campbell – expecting me to stay with people I hardly care for anymore." I look up, trying to convince him. Attempting to convey my sincerity. "Propose a better alternative."
There, I've shoved the question into the light.
Bold as brass, I cannot believe I've encouraged a topic of conservation I would have loathed to bridge only a few weeks prior. Hearing the thought out loud turns my stomach into a fluttering mess.
He studies me, jaw working around some invisible ire. "Grace, you may be striving for sympathy in this moment, but you're only extending my anguish. You have made your feelings on such an arrangement quite clear."
"And I have also said that time and distance from Birmingham might change my outlook on the institution."
I'm starved for love. I admit the truth of it to myself at last, feeling the weight of the torment lift. It is easier to manage somehow, now that I've faced it.
His mouth parts, exhale short and pained, attention shifting over my expression. Suddenly hopeful, even as he seems irrevocably desperate, like a man watching his last sunset.
"I would have already been a burden to you, in age and inadequacy... you cannot possibly accept me now." He exhales. "Do not continue to believe that I expect it of you. My letter this morning was far too presumptive."
Can I ever love a man so reverent – so inclined to see himself as less when I'll always see him as more?
I wonder it again, if only half-heartedly. The larger part of me wants nothing to do with thought or logic any longer. My foundations have shifted from dreams of solemn understandings and crystalline blue gazes and the intense, wandering urge to explore the dangers of a life with Thomas Shelby.
My desires are wholly different now. Purer and less complicated, like an offering of fresh, quiet salvation. I long for warm, unhurried embraces, fierce protection and murmured endearments.
Love, comfort. Normalcy.
No matter how little I may deserve such gifts, I'm greedy for them... and also, amazingly, for the bearer who brings them.
The rhythm of my pulse seems too quick for conversation, as I draw Campbell's knuckles under my lips.
"You've faced greater foes than a question, Inspector. Now stop listing all the reasons that don't prevent me – for I can assure you none of them do – and ask me properly."
"Are you ordering me into another proposal?" He laughs, more in disbelief than true amusement.
"I've heard that the 'third time is the charm', but if you'd rather not..." I glance away, puffing out a breath, finding the prospect of teasing him far more enjoyable than I'd have ever anticipated.
He grins, cocking his head, crinkled gaze steady on mine as he reaches between us – into an inner pocket of his jacket.
"I will confess that I had kept some hope before actually seeing you this afternoon, and am readily prepared for your... demands. Do you knowhow difficult it is to select jewelry, when confined to a hotel room?"
"Is your goal to guilt me into marriage? Because I'd rather be charmed," I jest, barely holding onto my feigned sternness at the sight of green velvet.
He opens the tiny box, bringing it up between us, his hand wavering slightly.
The outside sky is still laden with iron-grey clouds, yet there is enough ambient light in the room to catch the sharp, rectangular facets of a clear stone. The ring is different than the last he offered me; not laden with a halo of distracting diamonds, it is simple and solitary. I care little for jewelry but find myself transfixed. It feels appropriate now, for a woman with a singular purpose.
"I promise to never guilt you into anything, Grace, nor to leave your side. I will strive to charm you, to deserve your wit, your kindness, and your beauty for the rest of my days, if you decide to have me." He pulls the ring from its cushion. "Will you marry me?"
And somehow it is before me again – the rare, endearing lightness in his voice and eyes. It's as if the contents of a grave never mattered at all; as if another man never lingered in the dark spaces between us; as if the years have been pealed back to show me some brighter, hungrier shade of his youth.
I drink it in, cupping his hands beneath mine as I finally say, "Yes."
A/N: Thank you for reading! With enough interest I have had visions of a post-marriage epilogue, so please let me know if one last (probably steamy) glimpse into the future of this unlikely pair is of interest.