XXX THE GOOD WIFE
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1922, London — the gleaming, modern capital of the British Empire — was as far from the word safe as possible.
Men kept their head firmly down as they rushed home from their places of labour, one hand firmly clasped on the handle of some sharp tool or a pocket knife deep in their pockets; women held their purses even tighter once the sun fell and the smog settled like a firm blanket over the empty streets, providing a backdrop for the colourful array of calamities that might befall one on their way home.
As of late, with the noticeable unrest shaking the underground of the capital, the powerful criminals who held the reins of the city allowed their soldiers to use all means possible to ensure the defeat of the opposing side. It was a guerrilla war for every street, out of the shadows and through things seemingly insignificant to one's eye; a bakery in flames, a restaurant under a new management after a night of dulled screams and gunshots.
No one was spared; this war lacked a no man's land.
Still, Grace Burgess — though she was Grace Campbell now, it still felt foreign on her tongue — held her head high and arms tight around her coat-clad body as she walked down Fitzrovia to the address he gave her when she had called, desperation lacing her voice and all the weight of two, almost three, years of separation gripping her heart.
Her heart hammered in her throat, in the same rhythm as the soles of her heels.
A light, dimmed by thick curtains, spilled from the windows and onto the neatly paved patio, flanked by a respectable pair of flowerbeds — white and pink gerbera daisies, she noticed — awfully in character for a house of some well-off official, a family of new money with budding prospects and a deep pocket making their name in the heights of the capital's society. Certainly not something a gangster would enjoy.
The deep blue door opened even before she had the opportunity to grasp the gilded door knocker that stared at her.
He was there, on the threshold, as sharp and well-dressed as when she had last seen him, only his fringe was slightly longer and the fabric of his three-piece visibly more expensive. Age seemed to bypass his features, unscathed by the will of time in all manners save the deep set of his eyes.
"Thomas."
"Grace," he replied, stepping aside to let her pass in the foyer and close the door behind her.
Sage green tapestry complimented the dark wood of the floor and the staircase at the bottom of the hallway, the crystal chandelier spreading thin strips of light over the intricate fleur-de-Lis' on the walls.
Unreserved awe trickled onto her face. "Is this your house?" She could only imagine the appeal of it, the poetic irony — polished facade, beautiful in its lifelessness, mirroring its owner.
Ever the gentleman, Thomas took the fur coat off her shoulders, revealing the teal satin dress underneath, one of the finest she had, with the emerald green lace hugging her shoulders and falling around her knees like waterfalls.
Designed to impress.
"Yes," apart from the entrance, their eyes failed to meet even as he opened the door to the sitting room, a grand affair in mahogany and burnt orange velvet. "Have a seat," his hand stretches out, two strides nestling him in the armchair, and she, left on the couch.
The rings on her fingers weighed her down, hands falling into her lap, fiddling with the clasp of her beaded clutch. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed he had no wedding band to show off, nothing silver or gold save the pocket watch peaking out of his waistcoat.
Clearing her throat a little, she said, "Do I not get a drink?" Grace attempted to lighten the air in the room, dispel the thick cloud of tension that settled over them like her marriage veil.
Thomas lifted his head, shifting ever so slightly in the chair. "Please." He gestured offhandedly to the crystal decanter and a matching set of glasses, conveniently placed on the delicate tea table by the fireplace.
"You want one?"
"Yes."
"Still whisky?"
"Yes."
Curt and sharp, entirely too biting — one could hardly call Thomas Shelby a man of words. He measures them, weighs them up, less like a criminal and more like a politician, weaving around the matter and then shooting it straight into her heart. And what did I expect?
"But other things have changed," she took notice, watching as he lit his cigarette, first of many that night she was sure while she poured two measures of amber liquid into the glass, hollowly reminded of all the drinks she served him back in Small Heath. Her hands shook slightly.
"I saw vans with your name on at the docks."
Hundreds of them, bearing the sign of his empire that rose from the slums of Small Heath, spread its ambitious tentacles south and into the veins of the capital, painting the streets red.
Her husband came home more infrequently for the last year and when he did, she had heard him hiss the name Shelby into the telephone on more than one occasion, barking orders for the weekend. She'd be a liar to say she wasn't intimidated by the way her demeanour changed the moment he would hang up and go find her, his darling wife, with a wide smile on his face.
Their marriage was a play, a continuation of the tragicomic act started back in Ireland, its thread completely lost in secrets and whispers weaved by both spouses.
A hum came from the depths of his throat. "Yes, some things have changed," Thomas agreed, swirling the alcohol in his glass, taking a swig.
Grace stared into her drink, the cool surface of her glass digging into her grasping hand. The silence choked her. "I wasn't sure about—"
His piercing blues were on her, stopping her train of thought. "Why did you make me come here, Grace?" For all of Tommy's reluctance to convey his thoughts into words, it was his eyes that took on that role. Empty and expressionless when a deal was to be struck, all unpregnable steel and sheer determination, the riskiest card in the high-stakes game of his life.
Tonight they were bluer than a stormy sky, and unforgiving.
"I made a mistake two years ago, I admit it. Afraid for my life, I had to do whatever it took to survive after the mission was over," she took a sip of her drink. "I'm not happy in my marriage, I—"
"Why should it concern me if you are happy?" A genuine question spilled from his lips.
She wouldn't let herself be swayed, no matter how much he sneered and scoffed. "For the past two years, every day I wondered if only I had taken a different path, would we be conversing differently today," she met his gaze. "If this scene between us would play out differently. Amicably."
A soft scoff left his lips. "I would tell you that you are clinging to the past, but there is no past, Grace," he looked at her with a dose of pity, "It was one night. It was nothing. You were nothing."
She wondered how much more of his cruel words she could take. "Have you not thought about me at all?"
A beat. Then a sigh. "Yes. Yes, I have," he stretched his hand, shook the ash from his cigarette into a crystal ashtray, only to lean back again into the armchair, elbows resting on its arms. "That is why I accepted your invitation to come down here while your husband threatens my family," his voice fell dangerously low, simmering with anger.
The whiskey in his glass tipped from one side to another dangerously. "Not threatening anymore, no, arresting members of my family on false charges to spite me, to blackmail me in submission."
"You know I have nothing to do with my husband's job, not anymore," she raised her chin defiantly, looking straight at her former lover's cold eyes, "I resigned the moment he dug out the guns, Tommy. You know I would never betray you on my own accord."
"He used me against my will, Tommy," she stressed with urgency, her timid and rational posture vanishing in a blink if an eye.
"And yet, you married him. I reckon you need a free will for that."
Thomas took a long drag of his cigarette, mulling over her words. "I thought about it once. If it were some other time we would've had a nice glass of whiskey, I'd lead you upstairs to the master bedroom. Light up the fireplace, rekindle the acquaintance," he let his eyes drift from the burning ambers dancing around the fireplace to meet the eyes of his former flame.
Thomas shook his head. "It's gone, Grace. Whatever we had. And it would've been gone anyways, regardless of you marrying Campbell or not."
Grace sat back, as if she was slapped. It remained unspoken, and yet the one necessary name was the loudest in the room.
A knot formed in her throat. "Did you ever love me?" her voice was small, almost defeated. What have you done to me, Thomas Shelby?
He looks on, somewhere behind her, impassively. "I don't do love, Grace. You know that." It was the greatest lie of them all. He loved, and he loved fiercely, as he lived, and he loved her. The foreign woman.
"Oh, but you do, Tommy," she spoke sincerely for the first time that night. What was she looking for by coming here, a revelation? An absolution?
Which Devil possessed her to set her glass carefully on the table and cross the room to where he sat, grasp his hand once he didn't seem to flinch away at her touch and stare in the very cerulean eyes that haunted her dreams as well as nightmares?
"If you don't do love, how about rekindling the flame for just one night?
THE MANSION THAT SPREAD across the seemingly endless acres of green fields was one of the grandest things Caterina had ever seen.
It's daunting, at first. She knew May Carleton was terribly posh from the moment she opened her pretty little mouth and had the audacity to try and outbid them for a horse. There was an undeniable spark of mischief there, too, in the way she asked her questions, poked and prodded, trying to read between the lines of Tommy's ominous answers.
She was intrigued, to put it lightly.
Caterina gripped the supple leather of her Bentley's steering wheel a little tighter once all the looming towers of the Carleton residence came into view. "Well, fuck me, that's a house," she couldn't but breathe out in surprise. More of a castle than a house, if she were honest.
The Italian spurrs her car onwards. May Carleton was surely much more complex than she let on. She'll test her, for a spot of amusement, if not anything else.
Her host greeted her at the front entrance, with a flock of servants not so subtly watching the exchange between their mistress and the mysterious woman that rode up the gravel path and parked her sleek black car on the driveway.
"Miss Cardinale, what an unexpected surprise. You could've called ahead " May greeted her politely, hands firmly in the pockets of her plum coloured cardigan.
Swifter than a feline, the Italian emerged from the front seat, "You have a beautiful home May. And it's Cat, please." Her grin is half-cheeky and half-dangerous as she circles the front of the car with her hands in her coat pockets.
A greying man in a tux was quick to interrupt them. "If the miss wouldn't mind, the keys, please," he extended his white-gloved hand in front of her face.
Mildly flabbergasted, Cat sent a quizzical look over to May.
"He'll take it to the garage." The other woman elaborated, eyebrows lifted in amusement.
"Ah," she contended, fishing for the car keys and dropping them in the man's hands. "Better not scratch it, then." The butler's sour smile was all the reply she received.
"I've always wanted the flowerbeds and pillars. The ones with the swirly bits on the top," the woman mused and gestured to the row of pillars that decorated the facade, a flaunting display of wealth she admired.
"Ionic style, Greek," May explained, shifting on her feet as she tried to decipher this unexpected visit.
"Am I wrong to assume you're not here for idle chat about pelargonias and fish ponds? Because that would be a terrible waste of time for a businesswoman such as yourself," May asked slyly, cocking her head to the side. It provoked a genuine laugh from her guest.
"Of course not. I'm here to see the company investment, if you will. Tommy's told me how nicely she's progressing and I wanted to take a look now that I had an open afternoon," Caterina paused, sending May a smile. "You wouldn't mind?"
The two women contrasted sharply in their attire, May in her work boots with a thin line of mud sticking to their soles and a practical set of a thick pleated skirt and a shirt and Caterina in her billowing coat, dark as a starless night and revealing a forrest green three piece beneath.
"Of course not, I was just on my way," she cleared he throat. "Right, this way to the paddocks."
They walked down the gravel path and away from the house. "I didn't know you were fond of horses," May stated, throwing a look at her companion whose heeled boots clicked rhythmically against the ground.
"I love them, only I haven't had any time to get back into the saddle."
A field of green came into view, flanked by a thick forrest. "Oh, this is magnificent." There were two horses galloping over grass, accompanied by several grooms and a veterinarian sitting under the shade of a large oak tree.
Her hostess' eyes shone with pride. "My greatest love. I've seen every filly or stud raised in these paddocks being born and buried." They continued over to the large structure that housed the horses.
A lanky boy in a deep green overall approached May. "Ma'am." He extended a pair of sandy leather gloves in his hand, which she gladly took.
"Thank you, Barnaby."
"So, how much employees do you have for the horses?" Asked Caterina, genuinely interested.
"Three junior trainers, and a stablehand for each horse, so seven, a few gardeners who help out occasionally. Only the best possible care for some of the finest horses in England."
"Ah, here she is," May perked up, lengthening her stride. Their quarter-Arab was in the second to last paddock, much more refined than Curly's makeshift stables back home. "He named her, you know," May added casually, taking the lock off the paddock door and letting her in.
"Lady Cat." The name plate above the door suggested the same.
"What a sap," the dark haired woman rolled her eyes at Tommy's touching sign of affection. "Mildly embarassing, really. Sexist, too, if you think about it."
"Men tend to honour the things they care for the most," her trainer shrugged, running her hand along the filly's smooth back. "I have a boat called Mayflower," she stops, momentarily screwing her face in distaste. "A dreadful thing."
"Or they simply like to mark anything they consider their own," Cat retorted, leaning casually on the wooden panels of the paddock, entirely put of place in her sharply cut and pressed garb, and yet seemingly at peace. "And I don't fancy seeing myself as something that ought to be ridden. If anything, I tend to do the riding part."
There's something wicked in the way she says it, and the way she winks cheekily, enough to make blood rush into May's cheeks and render her speechless for several moments. May mustered all her dignity to subdue her pink cheeks.
"Can I tempt you with a cup of tea? Or something stronger?" She didn't know what possessed her, to invite the woman she barely knew into her home, and yet she couldn't help herself.
Caterina gave her one of her brilliant smiles, gesturing to the path they came from. "I'm all for temptation."
She poured her a drink herself, telling the maids to leave them for the time being and closed the ornate door to the grand sitting room. She'd noticed the way her guest's eyes drank in all the shapes of the opulent room, an unreserved showcase of her family's wealth designed to wow any important guests that might come to be entertained.
May shifted tentatively, observing the woman perched on her couch, sipping at the cherry out of a nineteenth century crystal glass engraved with floral motives and fleur-de-lys' as a memento for the coronation of Queen Victoria. One of her noble ancestors served as her handmaiden.
What was she supposed to tell her, speak to her about? She hardly seemed resentful, or as if she had any inkling of her... affectiontowards the Birmingham-bred enigma that went by the name of Thomas Shelby. If anything, after her first and last encounter with the woman back in Doncaster, she expected some sort of rivalry, no love lost between them.
Certainly not a house visit.
"I'm not interested in Thomas," May blurted out, very unladylike and undignified, the likes of which would make her governess turn in her grave.
Only, she was met with a sharp chuckle from the dark haired woman, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Of course you are. And who isn't? I don't blame you, really. Women, dogs, horses, men," she listed with another smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, completely unfazed.
"He's quite the compelling character."
May nodded briefly, settling herself on the opposite couch. "I could say the same about you."
"Oh really?" Caterina drawled, her interest suddenly piqued.
"All it took was one 'I do bad things', and I couldn't get the two of you out of my head," she admitted sheepishly.
The woman unconcernedly withdrew the maraschino cherry from the glass with a surgical precision, bringing it to her parted lips, eyes firmly on the wealthy heiress. She'd expect many things from May, but the sudden openess was a welcoming sight.
May swallowed thickly, biting down on her lip that involuntarily jutted out, quick to aver her eyes.
"I have a feeling we'll get along just fine, Lady Carleton," Catrina decided once she was left with no more of the sweet cherry.
A warm chuckle escaped the trainer. "Not a lady, and May is just fine," said she.
"Then call me Cat, please."
A bout of comfortable silence settled over them. "Will you be staying for the night? Or continuing straight for Birmingham?" May asked, receiving a raised eyebrow in reply. "The nights get quite cold here, I'd need to tell the maids if the fireplace ought to be lit," she elaborated hurriedly.
"Stay the night, if the hostess wouldn't mind," Caterina looked up to her from the sofa, great maroon eyes staring straight through her.
"Oh, I don't think she will."
THEY DINE ON BOAR IN A RICH, velvety sauce made with red wine and mushrooms, and golden-crusted potatoes that melt the herb-enriched butter the maids bring in on daintily porcelain platters. The wine is excellent, too, some of the best she ever had the pleasure of tasting, and she finds herself unable to decline May's polite question to join her in her private sitting room, to share a nightcap by the fireplace.
It was a photograph that catches Cat's eye that prompts her to speak up again — a handsome man in his forties stared at the camera, in a general's uniform and a gun slung over his shoulder — having already an inkling at who it was.
"Did you love him?" The words are out of her mouth before she has time to think, or curse herself for such a quick tongue.
May doesn't answer immediately and she looks back at her, fearing she had insulted her. She's still staring at the embers dancing over the burning logs.
"Loved the idea of him. A nurturing husband, that would dote on the children and put up with all my whims, grumble half-heartedly when I purchase yet another horse," her words painted a picturesque living.
"Most marriages in my circles are, plainly, business deals. My mother and father, too. We were married for two years before the war started and he was shipped off as a general, to defend the Crown and the People," the curly haired brunette said, bitterness lacing her voice.
"I only just had the opportunity to love him and the life took him from me." Caterina stayed silent. The war took from her, too, unforgivingly and unrepentantly, and then asked for seconds.
May turned her eyes to her companion. "What is your tragic love story?"
"He was nine years older than me, and every bit the man my father would hate to have for a son-in-law," she smiled at the memory. "A bad rendition of Romeo and Juliet if you ask me, only we were Sicilians in Birmingham and not Verona."
It was May's turn to chuckle. "What happened then? I see you're very much alive."
"He killed a man. And for that, he escaped over the sea," Caterina played with the piece of string from the blanket draped over her legs. She hadn't had the opportunity to speak of him to anyone about him for years. "Managed to conveniently bypass serving in the war, too."
"Do you still feel something for him, after all these years?" May asked, shifting closer to hear her.
"No," Cat answerd softly, truthfully. "It takes time, but you move on, eventually. You take all the memories that pain you and lock them away, to make way for the new people and new live that will ultimately break your heart because that's the human way of living. And when it hurts you the most and you feel like giving up those old memories will be there to deal another blow."
Her cold hand found May's cold one, entwining their fingers in mutual understanding. "But you'll stand up no matter how hard it is, because humans are also fashioned to love and there's no amount of pain or force that could stop us to do so."
"I still have all his medals," May croaked, eyes rimming with unshed, traitorous tears. "And why? They can't bring him back."
Caterina squeezed her hand tightly.
"Because you loved him. That's not something you should be ashamed of."
IN THE MORNING THE TWO WOMEN embraced like friends, brought together by their night by the fireplace, a bond forged through sweet, homemade cherry and salty tears.
May held her at arms length for a moment, savouring the way first rays of unexpected sunshine that poured over them on the patio. "If you'd like, I'm arranging a small gathering of my female social circle next week, no duchesses' I'm afraid, but a baroness, a few dames," she listed, a renewed vigour in her step and her words.
"What I want to say, if you have the ambition to build something great, us women need to have each other's back," she contended, appreciating the way Caterina's lips split into a charming grin and lit up her entire tanned face.
Caterina Cardinale could hardly boast with many friendships — most of her friends from school were long married and dotting mothers. Others stopped associating with her the moment she stepped into family business, and some hated her guts. The poor hated her for making them poor, the rich hated her for trying to climb the social ladder.
But May — May way a breath of fresh air and a promise of an exciting tomorrow.
Decorum be damned, Caterina pressed a kiss to her newly made friend's cheek. "Thank you. I'll see you around, May," she called over her shoulder before she sunk in the leather of her car seat and pulled it from the driveway.
In the rearview mirror May's figure shrunk, a tiny dot of purple and navy before she disappeared entirely. Caterina gripped her steering wheel, the road stretching wide and expectant before her, straight into the mouth of danger.
A/N: my aesthetic is Cat making people uncomfortable, like if you agree
