Six weeks later, London

"I cannot understand you, Grace!" My cousin, Eloise, cries for the second time this morning. "The whole of London society is at your fingertips yet you refuse to socialize. My word, I've no idea how that ghastly city made you an even bigger bore..."

She hasn't taken a bite of the tarte fromage she demanded for breakfast but rings for the maid to clear service.

Across the length of table my aunt reads a paper without comment, utterly impervious to her daughter's outbursts. It was the same in our youth, on the occasions my father sent me here, to visit his brother's grand home in Eaton Square. This side of my family is only compassionate when it suits them.

"I'm sorry. There are things I must attend to today." I take a sip of tea, searching through the headlines of my own newspaper.

STRIKES THREATEN BRISBON MANUFACTURING - CEREMONY HELD FOR SEVEN OFFICERS - PROPOSAL MADE TO DEVELOP WESTEND PROPERTIES

"You mean that dreadful government office again." Eloise clicks her lighter, gesturing with a cigarette. "Which do you think is worse, mumma? The filthy factory town our Grace escaped from, or the intolerable military office she insists on frequenting now?"

"Grace may do as she pleases," my aunt comments from behind her paper. It is the closest she will come to reprimanding my cousin for insensitivity.

"I think the office," Eloise persists. "What a horrid, dank place. Not a handsome gentleman or officer in sight. Just piles of paperwork and telephone operators in a dim, cramped room. It surely can't be the only method for hearing word from your dear Inspector, can it Grace?"

She twists the last with a conspiratorial drawl, as if this concern is something we share. As if she feels she understands me, because I came into her household with a man in my thoughts and happened to let her join me when I first went looking for answers.

Eloise's simplistic interests of societal intrigue and revelry are so distant from my own. So very, very far from any sense of honesty or compassion, yet I envy her all the same. For she cannot possibly understand what it means to break for someone; to battle the haunting question of 'what happened to him?' throughout her frivolous days of luncheons and shopping.

She has not felt the stretching haze of sleeplessness, as her nights extended into voids of sorrow and she was left with no real options except to pace and question and grieve a circumstance she could only guess at, while also grieving a different man – a person who had seemed to love her, before instead hurting her beyond forgiveness.

No, her nights have never been so dismal and complicated.

Above all else, my thoughts are never far from the train station. During the brief visits I'm allowed within the special communications office Eloise detests, I have only been granted the barest of facts: Inspector Chester Campbell was shot; he is recovering; his place of recovery must remain undisclosed for security measures; several members of the Shelby family were arrested amidst the rioting.

I fold the newspaper beside my plate, numbing myself to the continuing disappointment of finding no further news from Birmingham. Much like my cousin, London society only expects stories about the aftermath of a low-class upheaval when such a disturbance threatens the production of a valuable commodity.

"Here's the mail," Eloise chimes, and I know she is watching me as it arrives, waiting to see how desperate I might be today. If she torments me with false hope again I may finally throw a teacup at her cruel smile.

I force myself to stare at my toast as the butler sets a tray beside her and another beside my aunt. Eloise begins shuffling through her neat stack, the envelopes whispering against each other like soft secrets.

"There is a gentleman at the door who wishes to see Miss Burgess," the butler addresses the room. "The visiting Miss Burgess, that is."

My gaze darts up but Eloise is already speaking.

"Grace? Who could possibly wish to see Grace? She hasn't called upon a soul since she threw herself into our care!"

"Did he give a name?" I ask, my heart a hammering thing in this pale, ornate room. It might crack the porcelain, for all its clamor.

"No Ma'am. Would you prefer to have him call upon you at a later time? I asked the gentleman to remain outside, in lieu of your circumstances."

It could be anyone, I remind my aching chest. It could be an old acquaintance. A relation... Or all the worse, it could be a Shelby who has decided to rectify my deceptions.

"Good heavens, Brant! In this weather?" Eloise has risen from her chair, leaning into the wide bay window to view the man. "Send him in, whoever he is. It will be a relief to see our poor, moody Grace engaging in conversation again."

"Wait," I urge as Brant turns to leave, rising to my feet as well. I'm so afraid of disappointment but need to know. "It was wise to keep him outdoors. He may not be a friend."

I hurry beside Eloise, wiping at the fogging glass. The drizzle that persisted through the night has grown into slashing rain now, forming small rivers in the street. It shatters against every hard thing it encounters: the wrought iron fencing; the marble steps; the man's black umbrella.

"Rather a persistent fellow, to put up with this mess," Eloise muses. "Is it your long-awaited love?"

"Please allow him in," I call, puffing condensation against the window pane.

"Certainly, Ma'am. Shall I see him into the the Garden Parlor or the Freesia Room?"

It is a small kindness from him – to allow me, a mere guest, the right to choose where to entertain another.

"What a presumptive novelty you are this morning, Brant." Eloise snaps. "See the gentleman into the back Tea Room, if it please you."

"Very good, Ma'am."

The door to the dining room clicks shut and I straighten fully, my mind ablaze with so many concerns beside being ordered into the lowliest of the house parlors. The answers I seek may finally be at hand…

"You should change into something more fetching for your gentleman caller." Eloise is still examining the man outside, smoke curling around her. "I have a gown from my second season that may fit your dwindling frame."

It is such a snide, I'll-mannered comment – for my weight has indeed suffered – that I momentarily forget everything else except keeping my tongue between my teeth.

"I could of course entertain him, until you're properly attired..."

The low, suggestive lilt of her offer finally makes something uncontrollable flare behind my vision – a vicious surge of fury that has me feeling feral. It is as if I have suddenly joined the ranks of the Peaky Blinders, instead of fleeing from them.

"Cousin, your warmth and concern since my arrival here have been unrivaled." I lean closer to her, imagining the invisible, powerful weight of my pistol between us. "But today, sweet Eloise," I whisper, "I must insist that you find someone else to ingratiate with your kindnesses and stay the bloody hell away from both he and I."

There is a warped kind off beauty in the way her face freezes in the grey light, a momentary affront that she cannot hide. In the next, her sharp, unhurried grin replaces it, even as a confused consideration still lingers.

"Did you hear her mumma? Challenging our hospitality like that… My, my, how interesting you have finally become, Grace." She drops her voice, for my ears alone, "Do take care to hide such improprieties during your lovely reunion with your factory yard policeman."

My aunt speaks up with expert delay and conversational context, her paper rustling. "It is an interesting time for all women, darling..."

Interesting indeed, I almost remark, when families forsake any real sense of concern to instead treat their relatives with apathy and scorn.

I push away from the window sill, striding across the length of room. When the uncertainties before me finally dissolve and I am able to find my own home, I vow to never look back on these women.


"It is good to see you again, Officer O'Connell."

I take the man's hand in mine, trying to make my brittle smile appear somewhat genuine. The last time we saw each other was in front of this very house – me with blood under my fingernails and no sense of direction, and he with the unshakable determination to catch a return train to Birmingham. I can do little else but associate him with gunfire and shouting and chaos.

"You as well, Miss Burgess. Or would you prefer Agent Burgess? You'll forgive me, for not knowing your profession at the time..."

"Grace is fine, please." I gesture to the settee before sitting down myself, my hands suddenly feeling too unoccupied. "Tea or something stronger?"

He declines both while pulling a square of paper from inside his suit coat, cradling the envelope as though he fears damaging it. "I've been told the communications office has kept you mostly in the dark about what's happened?"

I nod, and then it seems no further words are needed. No tea, or biscuits, or meaningless pleasantries. Just a long look between us, and I am certain he is the messenger I've been waiting for.

He begins smoothing out a pair of letters on the low table, pushing both towards me.

"Strictly speaking, I've been told sharing this first bit of information isn't permitted, mind you. But since I'll be putting it back here," he pats his pocket, "as soon as I'm done reviewing it again on this fine table, I can't see the harm."

I clasp my hands all the tighter, vision blurring on the typed and handwritten papers between us – too afraid to read or even touch them, for an irrational, terrifying moment.

"Is it… is it good news?"

"Most of it." O'Connell urges, tapping a finger against a blocky paragraph. "Especially this bit."

Exhaling, I close my eyes for a long moment before drawing the typed letter into my lap.

Dear Sirs and Officers,

It is with my deepest regards that I commend your valor and determination this past May. I have been told of your various acts of bravery and steadfastness throughout the rioting which overtook Birmingham, and was deeply moved. It is a sound relief to find that men of good service still inhabit areas entrenched in criminality and civil discontent, for it is with the lowest of our country's populace that we must always strive the greatest.

Please do accept this invitation to dine and be honored on the twenty sixth of June, at ten thirty in the morning in the London War Office building. Retain this letter for admittance, as this occasion is a private affair meant to commend only officers and gentleman of your own exemplary service and standard.

Yours Sincerely,

Winston Churchill

I skim the letter once more, tracing the Secretary of War's signature at its bottom. If not for my confusion, I might be more impressed.

"You're in London for this?" My days have bled together but I think the twenty sixth is the day after next. "What did Birmingham police do to deserve it – if I'm to assume you all received an invitation?"

O'Connell shrugs, "Well, you know how little I did. They stopped half the city from burning down, held back an assault on the armory, killed John Shelby, and arrested the head of the family himself, Thomas Shelby."

So he's truly arrested then… not killed. I am not so callous as to wish Tommy dead, but prison means little for a gangster with influence and wealth. Like a curtain between two rooms, it is easily circumvented, if he decides to conduct business from within.

I push the emerging worry of it aside. "John was shot at the station?"

"He and four others ambushed our escort drivers and then tried overtaking the men on the platform. The shots we heard on the train, that was part of the shoot-out that ended with two of ours killed, another two wounded, and the lot of those bastards bleeding out. Apparently, the teller in the ticket booth had a rifle and no real love for the Peaky Blinders. Old man's been invited by Churchill as well, or so I'm told."

I imagine John Shelby's face for a long moment, letting his usually sardonic grin twist into rage and bloodlust. Yes, I feel with a shiver, why else would he be at that station except to stop me from escaping.

"I'm in London for the ceremony invitation," O'Connell says quietly, taking the Churchill letter and laying the other in its place. "But I've come to see you today to deliver this."

The echoing clamor of billowing steam and screaming and shattering glass fades from memory, replaced with only the scrawling words now beneath my gaze.

My dearest Grace,

I cannot begin to comprehend the turmoil you have been through since we last parted, nor the frustration you must feel at being denied information about the events that have transpired.

I can only hope that you will let me share such details with you in person, and that you may someday forgive me for leaving you behind. It has become my greatest regret, letting you out of my arms, yet they have decided to name it my greatest accolade.

There is too much to write here and too little time. I know you are being wary, like the intelligent agent you have always been, and believe O'Connell to be one of the few men you might trust. Please know I would be on your doorstep myself, if not for the security detail they'll saddled me with.This is the most important thing: I've been given leave to come to London and won't let orders keep me from you anymore. If you choose to, O'Connell is ready to escort you where I'm staying when you receive this.

I will never, ever deserve you, Grace and fear you have may have seen that truth in my absence. But despite the impossibility of your regard, know that you're still here, in all of my thoughts, and that I hold onto the hope that you might still feel as you said you did on that train.

All of my love and admiration,

Campbell

The words in the last paragraph are lengthened and messy, as if he were in some great rush – more scribbles than sentences and so unlike the composed, well-dressed man I have come to know. The urge to laugh overtakes me in a wave, and then shimmering tears follow. I swipe them away, afraid of marring the page.

He's here. I can see him today, if I choose.

Suddenly, I realize it is all that really matters – not just the ability to finally understand the culmination of my mission in Birmingham, but to hear the breadth of the exposition from him. To be in his presence. In his arms even.

"The Inspector was hoping you'd do that," O'Connell grins, extending a handkerchief.

"No, thank you," I laugh, waving it away, "No, I'm fine. But is it true? Will you take me to him?"

"Yes, and if this palace of a house has a phone somewhere I can call us a car too."

"They have three, but there's no need." I reach for one of the service bells Eloise is so fond of ringing, at last feeling a master of my own day. A woman with choices and opportunities once more, because if for nothing else, someone still cares for me. The rest feels lighter, almost inconsequential, if for only this giddy moment.

I'm already packing the few items I possess within my mind's eye, chasing an eventuality I never realized I had decided upon, when Brant enters the room.

"Yes, Miss Burgess?"

"If he is unoccupied, please have the house driver pull a car around front. Mr. O'Connell will be seeing me out this afternoon."


A/N: The next chapter will be the end of this piece. (4 parts, no more! Even though I've enjoyed writing this so much.) Also, on another note, I just realized there were quite a few OC's in this chapter - here's hoping they were beneficial, believable and a bit enjoyable. Thank you for reading!