Author's Note: Not such a long wait this time!
My amazing, wonderful, brilliant reviewers – you keep me writing, and I love this story almost as much as I love you all. Please don't hesitate to review and let me know your thoughts!
In these strange times I'm happy to hear that Tommy and Mercy are here to alleviate a little of your hardship, and will try to update soon with a Tommy-filled chapter!
For now, I think it's time we see some more of Ada!
There was something incredibly intimidating and frantic about Selfridges department store.
Starting in a small village and moving to Arrow House had been a startling change enough, but between bustling makeup counters of every design, a thousand mannequins covered in glittering waterfall fabrics, and middle-aged women in suffocating fur at every turn, Mercy felt like she was fighting for breath every second.
White and horizontally carved columns sparkled sporadically, and overly-persistent shop assistants seemed to appear from behind every single one, painted red lips around bared sharp teeth that made Mercy want to wince as they bit suggestions her way.
And while she floundered somewhat pathetically for air, Ada had, seemingly, found her element. Charging through the crowds with her deceptively strong fingers coiled around Mercy's wrist, Ada half dragged the younger woman over varnished marble and on harried feet. As seemed typical for every member of the Shelby family, Mercy noted that the other women and sparse sampling of men conceded to the dominance Ada seemed to possess and omit like a blinding light, ducking their eyes and turning from her instinctively to remove themselves from her warpath.
All in all, it had been a stressful day with the Shelbys so far.
Mercy tried to avoid thinking about Mr. Shelby's steely eyes and provocative smirk, wound in satisfaction and mockery as he handed her the yellow case that had fumbled in her slightly trembling grasp. He'd greeted Ada, who rolled her eyes at the dictation to not buy Mercy a guillotine to throw off her oppressive master. The look he sent her way smouldered of teasing fire, and Mercy almost missed it as she chose to avoid him in her awkwardness.
She was sure he was obnoxiously amused by her discomfort as he drove away, leaving only a searing memory in the very depths of her skin and the heady scent of smoke on her jacket.
It was only early afternoon, and Mercy felt exhausted.
So she was more than grateful when Ada drew back a floor length curtain and paused to essentially yank her into a private dressing room, circular and doused in deep red velvet, with dressing dividers and a myriad of gowns and shoes of every colour. But, more importantly, a plush black settee ran along the centre of the room and Mercy made a beeline to it, ditching her suitcase and throwing herself into its sanctuary, a smile set about her lips as she recovered her breath.
Ada, hands on narrow hips as she inspected the room and then Mercy's dishevelled state, raised a plucked eyebrow in her direction and let out a derisive laugh, "Not exactly built for the fast life, are you?"
Mercy laughed, still a little breathless as she shrugged away her coat, "That's one way of putting it. I didn't realise that people turned into such vultures in department stores. Unprepared doesn't begin to describe it."
Removing her own grey, calf-length overcoat and tossing it over the back of the settee Ada nodded with a grin, "It isn't usually so terrible, but there's a sale on at the moment," she gestured to the dresses on rails around them, "I'm sure my brother pays you well, but there's no sense in paying full price when there's a bargain to be had! Besides," she continued, pulling out a silver knee-length dress with draping fake crystals that clattered off-puttingly as they jumped about, "Who wants to buy only one dress when they're all this gorgeous?"
She threw the flapper dress over to Mercy, who was quick to wrinkle her nose and toss it back, much to Ada's amusement. Mercy shook her head, pointing at the silver number, "A little too loud for my tastes."
Grinning in a way that reminded Mercy of a particularly sneaky cat, Ada held the dress up against her own figure, a much more suited fit to Ada's thin frame, Mercy thought, and exclaimed with victory, "More for me then!" She began flicking through other dresses on the rail, humming a little in contemplation, "So what is it you're after then? And don't say anything along the lines of 'simple', 'cheap', or 'conservative' – that's for when you're working, not for when you're playing."
Mercy laughed, and began removing her shoes ready for redressing, "When I'm playing with Charlie I wear jodhpurs."
Ada tutted a little, her blue eyes – softer than her brother's, though still teasing – squinting a little in accusation and laughter, "Well the boys you'll be playing with tonight might prefer something a little more glamorous."
"Will they?" Mercy spoke in amusement, "I thought you were introducing me to liberals, socialists and communists: won't they be fundamentally opposed to me wearing something glamorous?"
Turning away from the rail where she had begun separating out dresses Mercy assumed were approved from the others, Ada pinned Mercy with a wry look of amusement, "Theoretically. But in reality all men like women that make them look good."
Mercy began unpinning her hair, "I'm not looking for a man, though."
Ada snorted, "Of course you're not, and nor am I. That's why you should pick a dress you like, not what you think anyone else will." Unbidden, Mercy had the fleeting curiosity of what Mr. Shelby might like of the myriad of dresses before her, but she blinked rapidly to thrust it aside as Ada continued, "Besides," her wry amusement was clear, "I don't imagine Tommy would be too happy if I had you married off by the end of the evening; I think he actually would prefer I make a communist out of you than a wife."
Stamping at any rising nerves or unbidden feeling, Mercy smiled with a little effort, contorting her face in a way she didn't usually have to force, "Especially the wife of a philosopher."
"He'd never let you near Charlie again." Ada joked, before turning with a clap of her hands, "Alright. You finish undressing, and I'll pull out some choices that should work for this evening. There's a seamstress here if anything needs pulling up or in, so don't worry about that."
Mercy hadn't been worried about it until Ada had said, but she couldn't deny that it might well be a necessity. She wasn't the ideal straight, skinny frame that the popular dropped waist dress hung so beautifully from; her figure leant itself more to an earlier style made to accentuate the narrow dip of her waist and the curve of her hips and breasts. She was a healthy weight and size, but not a fashionable one.
Stepping behind the divider, Mercy stripped out of the rest of her clothes, remaining only in her underwear and stockings, and took the dress thrust over the top of the divider by Ada. Having to duck to avoid the swish of the fabric, Mercy laughed and called out, "Can you at least wait until I'm clothed to kill me? To save my blushes?"
Ada cackled, "It's worth it in the name of fashion. Now get a move on or I'll have you buried in the 'loud' silver number."
Slipping into a dark red, calf length satin piece that had rounded, stitched detail at the hem and gathered at the bust, Mercy wiggled a little to pull it over her hips with near success before stepping into Ada's eye line, and in front of a mirror.
There was a pause as Mercy looked at herself, and Ada inspected her too with a tilted head. They hesitantly met the gaze of one another, and when they found the same conclusion in each other's expression they spat out a laugh each.
Mercy drew in a ragged breath, tears of laughter in her eyes, "My god, I look terrible!"
Ada nodded emphatically, "That is not the cut for you. You have far too much happening at the top to add detail, and it's too long for your height. The colour suits you nicely?" She added, as if trying to salvage some hope from her insults.
Raising her eyebrows with a grin, Mercy said with urgency, "The next one?"
And Ada nodded her agreement, "The next one."
The next one, it seemed, was much better by Ada's standard. It was a deep green that attracted the honey gold in Mercy's eyes, and it nipped at the waist. The neck formed a small 'v' shape meeting beneath her collarbones, and the hem fell to her feet, with a slit that climbed to mid-thigh.
It was the slit Mercy objected to. The dress looked nice enough, and was quite beautiful, but Mercy was clumsy and the thought of spilling open her dress in a tumble sent a red colour across her cheeks and into the 'v' of the neckline. Ada had shrugged and deemed it fair, before sending her to change once more.
They battled through three more dresses, all seemingly the wrong shape, length or colour, before Mercy stepped out with a smile and a nod before even finding the mirror.
Ada took one look from where she had thrown herself onto the settee and scanned the woman presented before with a quick exhale, a throw of her hands into the air, and a brisk "Finally!"
The champagne hue of the dress set off the light tan that garden time with Charlie had painted her with; the material grazed over her curves and highlighted them generously, falling to her knees with the length of the closely knit tassels that danced as she moved; deep golden patterns that glittered in lines and swirls over the smooth fabric caught the light, and Mercy felt happy.
More than that, she felt beautiful.
As Mercy had been admiring the dress, smoothing her hands over it repeatedly, enjoying the beauty and feel of the material, Ada had pulled out shoes for her to try on, matching the champagne base of the gown. She slipped into them and sighed. "I've never worn anything like this before. There's never been the opportunity or the occasion."
Ada appeared behind her in the mirror and smiled comfortingly, "Well I plan to have you come to London quite often, so you'll find plenty of occasion from here on out. Now let's go! I need to pick up my dress from upstairs, and you need makeup."
Sputtering a little as she was shoved back behind the divider, Mercy called out, "Why do I need makeup?"
Ada's retort was sardonic, "Do you own a lipstick?"
"No." Mercy reverently returned the dress to the hanger before slipping back into her blouse and skirt.
"Then that's why. Every woman should have a lipstick."
"But I'm not a woman most of the time," Mercy appeared from behind the divider, slipping into her boots, "I'm a childminder."
Ada rolled her eyes and slipped back into her coat, flicking out the stylish length of hair from the collar, "I didn't realise the two were mutually exclusive."
Mercy threw her a teasing look, collecting her case and purchases, "They certainly feel it when I'm half asleep and covered in sick."
Hiking her purse up her shoulder, Ada pulled back the curtain to release them from the dressing room and shot Mercy a look of mirth over her shoulder, "And on those days you can look at the lipstick and that dress and remember that you do have some feminine qualities after all."
Ada's house was stunning, and – ironically – a rather bourgeois place to hold a gathering of left-wing philosophers, politicians and patrons. The ceilings were high and windows large, the bar area was raised away in a small alcove with counters on either side and opened up through an archway into the drawing room, where Ada flitted with her half-sarcastic smile and a tumbler of expensive whisky.
She looked like the perfect hostess, effortless and beautiful against the duck egg blue and silver backdrop of her walls, a black diamond in the hue of her noir dress, the drop waist as flattering on her as Mercy had suspected, offset by a string of pearls and a scarlet lip.
Around Ada, some suited men sat comfortably in settees and armchairs, billowing smoke into the air in curls that seemed somehow more obtrusive and pretentious than Mr. Shelby's exhales ever did. They laughed little, but spoke a lot, often at the expense of one another, and Mercy wondered if even one of them was listening to another.
There were women too, pretty in dark colours that made Mercy feel like the outsider she knew she was. They clutched glasses of champagne and tumblers of whisky, and Mercy thought if it would be best for her to get a drink of water before joining the fray.
Ada spotted her, and obviously thought otherwise, catching her hand from where she half-sat on the arm of an occupied armchair as Mercy moved passed her to the bar, pulling her into her side with a wicked smile.
Mercy forgot about the features of her own face for a moment and wondered if they had warped into the discomfort and reluctance she felt so deeply, before shoving on a smile, speculating how different it looked painted in the dark red of her new lipstick.
Ada stood, letting her arm fall around Mercy's shoulders as she introduced her, "Gentlemen, to your complete misfortune you won't have met my friend Mercy before." The men all turned to look at her, and Mercy nodded, clutching the back of Ada's dress in a childlike way before realising what she was doing and releasing her, "Mercy, this is James Dawes, Christopher Mason, Fitzwilliam Carlton, Richard Matthews, and William Crawley. They're all very political and very opinionated and I'm sure they can't wait to corrupt you with Russian politics and Marxist revolutionary theory."
Smiling as politely as she could, Mercy blinked and tried to remember any of the names at all that Ada had just listed, "How thrilling that sounds."
When a low laugh rumbled through the gathering of men, Mercy assumed they'd heard her underlying cynicism.
Before any response could be made, one of them – blond and moustached, but young enough to be only late twenties – jumped to his feet and snatched up her arm to loop it around his before the surprise could even register in the quick beating of Mercy's nervous chest. "Now in order to be ready for that I think you'll certainly be in need of a drink. Whisky? Champagne?" He began guiding her to the bar alcove, and Mercy sent Ada a look of confusion, "Or are you a vodka girl? You look like a clean kind of girl to me, so I'm thinking vodka."
Apparently it didn't so much matter what Mercy thought about what she'd like to drink, and she only blinked as the blond man motored on, "But then the whisky… Ada does buy good whisky. Only Irish, of course, nothing Scottish or American here, which is a shame because Jack Daniels is a smooth son of bitch, new on the market and a cracking way to feel the burn of course, but still, I think you'll like the Irish kick. The Irish are good at that, after all, giving the English a good kick, don't you think?"
He handed her a tumbler that was rather full of the honeyed beverage, she thought, rather more full than his own glass, or that of any other in the room, but – even had she wanted to mention it – she never would have had the chance. Moving a hand to her lower back, he turned her around and moved her to the seat he had just vacated himself.
Uncomfortably, the man whose name she did not know – though that spoke for all of the men in attendance, because really, who had Ada introduced them as? – took a seat on the arm of her chair and lounged back and inward, leaning toward her bodily. "What do you think then, eh? A good blend, isn't it, good whisky. Strong kick."
Mercy nodded, knowing he wouldn't have noticed if she had or hadn't taken a sip of the neat beverage, because he was too busy looking at her dress and then the other men in the vicinity. He seemed smug and far too comfortable for her taste, and she thought briefly of the self-satisfaction Mr. Shelby always seemed to exude, and how she believed it had been annoying. Compared to this stranger who inserted himself far too closely to her, Mr. Shelby was positively endearing.
The blond turned his attention to the rest of the group and called over the din as they all spoke at each other, "I say, gents, we were talking about the Irish problem just now –" were they? Mercy couldn't recall a conversation at all. "- and what do you think about this religious poppycock? Can a revolution even be true if it's about remaining oppressed by organised religion?"
The mustachioed men charged forward with the new topic but all Mercy could here was a buzzing, consistent and frustrating as their voices droned together into banality. She thought of Mr. Shelby's voice, deep and rough and commanding in the way he ground out that he liked her wet silk robe and dirty dress.
She was so aware of his voice she thought she could pick it out of a crowd of a thousand shouting men; he could whisper, and she would hear it clear as day. If he were in France still and she in Arrow House, she'd feel the vibration of it through her nerves and up her spine until it lodged into the very heart of her and carved the words across her ribs.
Was that another Shelby trait? The demand for attention in the simplest way? Seeing Ada today made her think so, though she could hardly chalk it up to genetics the way his voice coiled through the stream of her blood, warming it almost inexplicably.
" - the opium of the people! What do you think, Mercy?"
Mercy refocused the gaze she didn't notice had hazed, coming to register the questioning stare of hazel eyes in front of her, belonging to an auburn haired fellow who had obviously demanded something of her.
She blinked, parted her lips, and breathed out an, "I'm sorry, I was distracted by the whisky. What did you ask?"
The blond man beside her laughed boisterously, "What did I tell you? The Irish kick!"
Mercy wondered if they could see the boredom in her forced smile, or if they even cared considering the fact she hadn't touched a drop of the liquid, but she hummed her agreement all the same.
The auburn man repeated, "Marx thinks that religion is the opium of the people. A way to keep the working class from questioning their place and accept that their happiness comes in heaven, after their suffering in this life. What do you think?"
Fleetingly, Mercy wondered if they were asking her as a poor person to reveal her stance, but dismissed the idea promptly. They didn't know enough of her to direct as such. So, shrugging, she smiled her most charming smile and responded, "I think opium would be a far more pleasant way to introduce a Sunday morning."
A pause, an awkward beat where Mercy held the strain of her smile, and then suddenly Auburn barked out a laugh and a chain reaction of bellowing hoots sounded around her, like an echo that wouldn't cease pressing upon her ears. Chimes of 'how charming!' patronised her, and Blond leaned in closer as the men settled, eyes aglow as they each took her in. "Aren't you a wonder! Where has Ada been hiding you, the cheeky minx! Squirrelling you away like a diamond in the rough!"
Mercy couldn't help but lean back and away from Blond, trying to recover some distance between them. She opened her mouth, a reply forming on her lips, but that voice – that growling, rough timbre she'd been thinking of – cut through the buzz, severing through the haughty atmosphere with a serrated edge:
"Ada has nothing to do with where she's hiding." Mercy whipped her head so quickly it almost strained, and behind her stood Thomas Shelby, intimidation and attraction all in one, staring down Blond until the man laughed awkwardly and raised his hands in uncomfortable surrender. "Mercy," steely eyes met hers, and relief, excitement and trepidation in contradicting measures surged through her nerves, "Let's get a drink."
He held his hand out to her, rough palm facing up, and without objection Mercy took it and obeyed his command. Thomas Shelby was certainly the more evil of the two before her, but he was the evil she knew, and the evil she trusted, and it was an easy decision to make. Blond didn't seem to agree. "She already has a drink."
Mr. Shelby looked down at the whisky in her hand and Mercy swore she saw a lightning strike of amusement illuminate his eyes, if only for a fleeting moment. Without a word he took the overly full drink from her, chased it down it what seemed to be two gulps, and threw the empty tumbler casually at Blond, who floundered to catch it under the bored inspection of Mr. Shelby before it smashed across the hardwood floor.
"Now she fucking doesn't." Mr. Shelby pulled her gently by the hand until she was stood beside him and didn't release his hold on her as they crossed to the sanctuary of the bar alcove.
Before they made it, a simmering Ada cut in front of them, her words shoved out between clenched teeth, "I thought you had business to attend to, Tommy."
"My business is finished for the night," His voice was soft, and so dangerous it shuddered down her spine, "I thought I'd come and enjoy myself with my sister."
Ada snorted with indigence and crossed her arms defiantly, "I didn't invite you. How is Mercy supposed to meet people and have a good time if you're here lording over her?"
Mr. Shelby sent her a wicked smile as he half turned toward her, hand still sheltering hers, a look of knowing on his face at the predicament he'd caught her in, and how much she had not been enjoying herself. "Mercy doesn't mind me lording over her, do you?"
Before Mercy could stutter out a reply, Ada cut in, "Of course she won't say she minds! You're her employer!"
Seeming to lose his patience, Mr. Shelby's countenance tightened, "It's been a long day, Ada, and I want a drink."
"And there aren't a hundred bars in London to choose from?!" Mercy felt caught, and awkward again, as the siblings seemed to war, their unyielding stubbornness and determination clashing heatedly.
"You have the whisky I like."
Halting Ada's retort, one of the women drinking champagne called her name out, beckoning the whirlwind hostess to her as she eyed Mr. Shelby openly. It didn't take one of the educated philosophers on the settees to understand what – or who – it was she wanted to ask Ada about.
Ada stormed away, sending a hot look her brother's way that spoke of biblical retribution, before pasting a smile back over her lips. At last they reached the alcove of the bar, and sheltered there in the shadows a sense of calm seeped over Mercy, from the top of her stylishly pinned curls to the point of her stockinged toes. She breathed deeply, as if finally free from under water, and then plunged back into an icy lake of crystal blue as soon as her eyes met Mr. Shelby's.
He smirked at her, all victory and unearthly beauty as the darkness moved around him, conforming to him, running through that voice of sin that didn't fail to illicit raised hairs over her arms.
"Better?"
Let me know what you think!