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Chapter Text

The meat had turned cold on Tommy’s plate, juices congealing and seeping into the green leaves arranged like delicate swirls forming a tornado. Mrs Ellesmere’s cold eyes flickered sporadically to his uneaten meal though she said nothing. She’d said little all evening. 

Tommy wasn’t fooled by her silence. The dynamic between the woman and her husband was so stark he expected even a child would notice. It was a necessary evil to be in their presence — Montague Ellesmere’s name was in all the newspapers. His speeches in parliament earned astounding applause that lasted minutes at a time. However, sitting here in Montague’s home, it became abundantly clear to Tommy that the man was no more than a mouthpiece, a puppet. Montague was Arthur without the brokenness, and his wife a version of Linda with a firmer grasp on her husband’s strings.

Tommy sipped his whiskey and lit a cigarette. A servant rushed forward to light it for him, but though Tommy had lowered himself to dining with fascists, he refused to imitate their behaviour. If he didn’t draw thick, straight lines around what he would and wouldn’t tolerate, he risked sliding right into their pit. It was an intricate dance. A delicate game. His mind had not been so challenged since the war, and this way of fighting was entirely brand new. Was that why he kept pushing, he wondered? Would he still be here if the goal was not so unattainable, the challenge not so insurmountable? 

Montague Ellesmere asked, “Would you allow me to speak plainly, Mr Shelby?” 

He was a slightly squat man, with dark eyes and a moustache and a habit of flicking cigarette ash in a wide arc about him, caring not where it might land. He lifted his glass into the air and a servant rushed to fill it at once. 

“By all means,” Tommy said, leaning back slightly in his chair.

A strange smile played at Montague’s lips before he gestured forward. “You have an image problem.” 

Tommy didn’t react. Not with more than a blink. It hardly mattered that the papers had launched a smear campaign against him, nor that he could only guess who was behind it, who wished to discredit him. The whole of Britain now knew that his wife, Lizzie, was a whore. They didn’t yet know that she’d left him. He wondered if the divorce would make him more or less sympathetic to voters. Adding to that, the audits of the company were growing more frequent, their shipments to Boston more closely inspected. Eventually, he would need to wind down the illegal side of the business entirely, when the risk became too great. Hundreds of men would lose their jobs. Their families would starve, their children’s bodies growing as cold as Ruby’s six feet under. Once again, he wondered which headline would resonate better with voters. Which evil would be more palatable. 

“You have done well,” Montague continued. “You have climbed higher than… Well, higher than any man that I know of. Considering you started at the base of the mount, after all. Which is why you are here. Is it not?” His moustache twitched with amusement. “You need our contacts. You need our voters. And you need our support in parliament.” 

His wife’s eyes flashed. Tommy glanced between them both for a moment. It was among the stranger things he’d learned about this world. The most despicable people seemed to curry the best public opinion. All orchestrated. All planned. Stories and photographs showed only what they wanted, and the papers were far more loyal to men with this level of power than a working-class gypsy from Birmingham. 

Tommy had to eventually answer. “You are a capable man. You know how this field operates. You invited me for dinner.” He shrugged. “I struggle to believe it was for the pleasure of my company. You know what I want. But what is it you want from me?” 

He saw it, then. Only a fraction of a second. Montague glanced at his wife. Her nod was imperceptible, even to Tommy, but he supposed a lifetime together had them attuned to such mannerisms. A luxury he’d never been afforded with a woman. 

“A collaboration would benefit us both,” Montague said. “You have working class voters. Working men, and women, who have been fed the socialist lie. And… Well. Let’s not skirt around the matter, Mr Shelby. You also have a great deal of money.” 

Tommy made a small noise of amusement. “You wish to poach my voters.” 

“And you wish to poach mine.” Montague’s moustache twitched again. “We ought to let the people decide for themselves, hmm?” 

“Then let them decide for themselves.” Tommy’s cigarette had almost burnt away. He could feel the heat of the ember at his knuckles. “Save us both the time and the great deal of money.” 

Montague nodded in slow, heavy succession. “Ah. But you are forgetting a rather important fact.” He stilled. “As I said, Mr Shelby. You have an image problem.” 

Tommy fought the impatience rising in his chest. “And you wish to fix it? Ought I visit the orphanages I built, have my name erected in large, gold letters? Boast about the hospital wing for consumption built on my coin?” 

Montague tutted. “Such stories last only a day, Mr Shelby, and then people forget. What you need is a wholesome family unit.” 

Tommy wasn’t about to speak ill of Lizzie. No matter what had transpired between them, no matter the pain they had shared and the fact she had left, she was still Ruby’s mother. He stood to his feet, ready to leave the conversation and the building. 

“Forgive my husband.” Mrs Ellesmere had finally spoken. A European accent danced through her words, though Tommy couldn’t place it. She had her head tilted towards him, her eyes wide and serious, though still sharp with cunning. “He is a charismatic man. He toys with his words as he speaks them. He cannot help it. He is a politician after all, no?” 

Tommy stilled, though did not sit back down. He only fixed the woman in place with his gaze and waited for her to continue. 

“We can help you, Mr Shelby,” she said. “Oswald tells us you wish to join the party. You wish to bring a… socialist flavour. Our goals are not so different.”

“I had my reasons for working with Mosley,” Tommy said flatly. 

“And if those reasons do not extend to us, why did you come to dinner?” When Tommy did not reply, she pushed on. “We have a daughter. Charlotte. Perhaps you have heard of her?” 

“I heard she joined a convent,” Tommy said flatly. If they were about to offer him religious advice, they would learn quickly that he wasn’t interested. Not after the things he’d seen and endured. 

“No,” Mrs Ellesmere said. “Not yet. She wishes to join, but she will not. Her brothers are both highly celebrated military men. We had success with them. We wish to have as great success with her, too.” She paused. “Charlotte is a wonderful girl. Very pious. The newspapers love her and the voters do, too. She is cleaner than a bar of soap, and has done enough charity work that even our Priest believes she will reach sainthood. She has devoted her life to service. But she now needs to settle down, marry, and raise a family. She is running out of time. We have found many suitors for her, but we wish to extend the offer to you first.” 

The pieces began slotting into place in Tommy’s mind. “You are offering me your daughter.” 

“She will recoup your image,” Mrs Ellesmere promised. “You will barely have to do a thing. You can focus on your work.” 

“And what do you get out of this arrangement?” Tommy asked. Sod it, he lit another cigarette. 

Mrs Ellesmere smiled shyly. “A portion of that great deal of money you speak of. Not much. Only enough that we might breathe until next election year. And as my husband said… a collaboration. Mr Shelby, I do not know if you are truly committed to our work. I do not know if you were honest with Oswald. He seems to think perhaps not. But even if you remain a socialist… Well, look at the Mitfords. Their family falls all across the political spectrum. It has only elevated them to greater success. You may have heard by now that the voters who sit firmly on one end or the other do not need us. It matters not to them what we say, or do, or our policies. Socialists will be socialists and conservatives will be conservatives. Trying to convert either is a waste of everyone’s time.

“But those who waver in the centre… They’re the ones that are dangerous. They’re the ones who win elections, or instate members into parliament. They’re who we do it all for. The ones who struggle to pick either side, thinking they can hover somewhere in the middle. They do not see how black and white it is. They see the world in sepia and in sepia they will remain until they are forced to choose. In a family like the Mitfords… or like ours when you marry,” she added, rather boldly, “the choice is right in front of them. Black. White. Which will they pick? Which do they align with? I cannot promise you that you will earn more than us, but nor can I tell you the opposite. We simply do not know. And on the chance you do wish to join our party instead…” She shrugged. “We can promise you great power. Greater than you would find anywhere else in the world.” 

Tommy knew her words to be true enough. Montague and Mosley were closer than brothers. Even Churchill conceded the Ellesmeres would eventually end up in Downing Street at some stage during their lifetime. Marrying their daughter would be trumped only by marrying royalty. And given the strings that would come attached to a royal union, the fact he would rather saw his own leg off, it seemed this was the best match he could hope for. One he never ought to have been able to attain. Not a man of his beginnings. Not in this lifetime or any other. 

The Ellesmeres knew it. The only thing left to determine was the catch. 

“How does Charlotte feel about this?” Tommy asked. 

“She is a quiet girl,” Mrs Ellesmere said. “Delicate. Raised to be obedient. She will not put up a struggle.” 

Tommy’s eyebrows raised, though he said nothing. He’d taken a wife out of duty before. Marriage was a farce. A woman to warm the bed. A piece of paper. Lizzie had done little but henpeck at him for seven years. It sounded like the Ellesmeres’ daughter would be quieter, if nothing else.

Strategically, it was a clean move to make. He would be firmly cemented as a political visionary, not a gangster. A vision of grace and redemption. Trading in a whore for a would-be nun. 

Cleaner than a bar of soap. 

Tommy’s eyes turned blank. He would need to think about it. He wouldn’t give the Ellesmeres the satisfaction. Not now, not tonight. 

But he had lost everything. He was desperate. And he had his answer.

Chapter Text

Black thread wove through black fabric, the silver glint of a needle catching the morning light. Charlotte hummed softly as she worked. Her soft hair fell in waves, pinned back neatly from her face so she might concentrate. That face was fresh, clean, not so much as a swipe of lipstick marking the soft colours of her skin. She could have had the habit made, of course, but there was something special about sewing it together herself. 

Only two weeks until she would become a Sister of the Convent. She was still a year or two away from taking her final vows, but she would be living in the convent and preparing herself as a bride of Christ. The thought brought a warm smile to her face. She hugged the fabric to her chest, taking a moment to breathe and pray. “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered. 

He had guided her here, after all. Had walked with her longer than she could remember. Her dearest friend. Her greatest love. She would lay down her life for Him. She would do anything He asked. He answered her prayers, after all, and if He couldn’t grant her what she asked, the reason always became apparent. He had blessed her beyond measure. Even when the horrific, unspeakable thing happened, the thing she kept locked away firmly in a cage at the very base of her mind and refused to ever acknowledge, God had her. He took her in His arms and didn’t once let her go. She’d cried. It was the closest she’d ever been to losing her faith. But He spoke to her and she knew the terrible act was not God’s doing. It was the Devil. He seeks to corrupt and destroy, after all. Prowling like a lion looking to devour. 

Charlotte put on full armour each day, cloaking herself in faith and righteousness so the Evil One would not be able to touch her again. Jesus was her protector, her saviour. He never hurt her. Never abandoned her. There was only love, only calm. 

Charlotte had travelled extensively for missionary work, spending time with children in impoverished countries and rebuilding villages after devastating disasters. She learned that people became disillusioned when they did not know God. They sought Him in everything without realising it. They made idols of people in their lives and inevitably felt disappointed when nobody could provide what they were looking for. Women searched for it in their husbands. Children searched for it in their parents. But people were imperfect and compelled to sin—Charlotte knew that better than anyone. How many times had she fallen on her knees, how many confessions had she whispered to Father Raymond in the Parish? And she would keep falling, keep confessing, for as long as she lived. Up until her dying breath, she would be begging forgiveness. And though she did not deserve it, her Lord always granted it. There was no wrongdoing too great for Him. Nothing that could turn Him away. 

Charlotte wanted nothing more than to be a light of His glory, to be used to shine upon others and dissipate their darkness. She never bore a grudge, choosing forgiveness even if it angered her. She tried not to think ill of others, and when such thoughts arose, she prayed they would be taken from her. She never begrudged her parents when they scoffed or shook their heads or otherwise misunderstood her. Though they attended church, they thought she was slightly mad. Fanatical. That was okay. Most people did. Nobody could understand who had not felt her Lord’s presence. Jesus promised the world would not be kind to her, for it was not kind to Him. When she meditated while praying the rosary on His suffering, His crucifixion, His sacrifice and the pain He endured, the way He pleaded with His father that if any other way was possible, may it be taken… It broke her heart. It could leave her inconsolable. She would give anything to take His place on the cross, to soothe even a moment of His anguish. The thought of it felt like a physical pain crushing her body until she could not breathe, like a mother watching her newborn baby suffer horrors no mind could comprehend. 

But Charlotte blinked away her tears and felt His comforting embrace. She loved Him. She loved Him with all her heart, and now she would dedicate her life to Him. 

Once she became a nun, she would live in prayer. Perhaps teach at a school, if that’s how He wished her to serve. God rarely showed her the whole path ahead. No, He only illuminated one step at a time, just as he had done for Mary. That was faith, after all. She had to take the leap and trust He would catch her and continue guiding her forward. Sometimes it became unclear. Sometimes she felt as lost as the Israelites in the desert, wandering, doubting. But sometimes God’s influence was undeniable in the way things pieced together. Case in point, when the convent were only taking on one postulancy this year, and Charlotte unknowingly stumbled into the building the very day they’d declared the first person to do so was sent from God. It was where she belonged. It was home. 

My lord, my refuge, my saviour. 

A knock came at Charlotte’s door. She glanced up, concentration broken. The room was half packed away, all of her belongings being sorted into piles to take, donate, or throw away. Some things could stay here, in her parents’ house. In fact, most of them probably could rather than being donated, but she was trying not to become attached to the lovely, material things surrounding her. She would be taking vows of poverty, after all, and it seemed silly to do so with a room full of treasures she’d been loath to donate to a family who might need them.

 Not that her mother could understand. She entered the room, nose wrinkling in that familiar way it did each time she glanced at the boxes. She’d tried every way to stop Charlotte from going. Dismissal, condescension, pleading, crying, anger. Charlotte had been praying non-stop that her parents might understand her call to service. She couldn’t work out why they were so vehemently against it. She supposed it was because she was a political asset to them. A chess piece they would be sacrificing, one they kept trying to marry off. But in time, even they would understand. She’d been asking her Lord to change their hearts. Saint Monica prayed for her son Augustine for years and years before he ever changed his ways, and Charlotte reminded herself of that each time she became impatient or frustrated. God had His timings for a reason. They were not for her to dictate. 

“Darling, I am taking a walk of the grounds,” Mother said. “Would you like to join me?” 

Charlotte smiled softly. “I would love to.” 

It was always with trepidation that Charlotte glanced back at the house. It was large and ornate, with so many rooms and servants and heirlooms. Jesus said in the Gospel of Matthew that a rich man would have a hard time entering heaven, that it would be more difficult than a camel squeezing through the eye of a needle. It always sent a shiver down Charlotte’s spine, a measure of fear through her heart. But she didn’t need to worry. She would not be rich for much longer. In the convent, she would have few possessions at all, and it was the only thought that might calm her. 

“I have been praying more often lately,” Mother said as they walked, her wellington boots sloshing over damp grass. 

“That’s wonderful.” Charlotte’s chest felt warm. She supposed it must be the heat of the Holy Spirit. Her mother’s heart was changing. God was drawing her close. 

“It has brought me a great deal of comfort. I’ve been meeting with Father Raymond, also.” 

“Oh, I am so happy to hear.” Charlotte tugged down the sleeves of her cardigan to fend against the chill in the air. The frost had all but melted in the morning sun, but the wind still had a bite. Winter was her favourite season. There was such joy to be found in suffering. 

“I… I believe I have had personal convictions from the lord.” 

Every word that left her mother’s mouth brought joy to Charlotte’s heart. She wanted to weep with it. But things quickly changed.

“Your father made a decision,” she continued, her voice quieter now, her accent growing thicker. “I did not agree with it. I was angry at him… furious. I tried to talk him out of it, but it was too late. And when I spoke with Father Raymond… He reminded me that as a wife, God commands me to submit. Just as you, as a daughter, must honour your parents. I am struggling with it though, Charlotte. I am struggling with the concept… How on earth do you reconcile it? Or do you, at all?” 

Charlotte thought for a moment as they continued to walk. “It all comes down to God’s guidance. He speaks to the husband, who obeys Him for the good of the family. By obeying Father, you are obeying God. And as your daughter, I must honour you both, yes. Not in submission now that I am grown. But in respect.” 

Her mother nodded, brow still furrowed. “Father Raymond believes your father’s decision came from the Lord.” 

“Excellent,” Charlotte smiled. 

“But… Oh, my dear girl…” Mother bit her lip. She stopped walking, absolutely distraught by whatever was consuming her. A hand at her forehead, tears welling in her eyes. 

Charlotte’s concern grew. “Mother, what is it? Oh, come here.” She wrapped her arms around her and took a breath, connecting with the Lord, asking that He might ease Mother’s melancholy. Asking that He might continue to guide her, to draw her close, to help her in submission. She longed to pray the words aloud over her mother, but she was sobbing, and Charlotte did not wish to interrupt, nor to seek any glory from it. 

“My dear girl, I… Please forgive him… It was the Lord speaking through him, our Priest confirmed it, and I am so worried you will be provoked to anger…” 

Charlotte did not often frown, but it spread across her face in confusion. “Of course I will not be angry. Of course I will forgive. Oh Mother, what is so terrible? Please tell me, please let me help.” 

She began to worry. Had Father turned to gambling? Had he been caught doing something inappropriate at work? But neither could come from God. No sin could. None of it made any sense. 

Her mother was inconsolable. “I don’t know if I can… Oh, my darling girl, don’t make me utter the words, please…” 

“Whatever it is, it is alright,” Charlotte reassured. 

Her mother sniffed then lifted her grey eyes. “Do you promise? Swear it, Charlotte, swear you will not be angry, that you will forgive…” 

“I swear it,” Charlotte said gently. 

“You are too good for us.” Mother wiped her face. “You always have been.” 

Though Charlotte’s pride fought to cling to the words, to wrap them around her brow like a crown and wear them for her own selfish desires, she allowed them to fall like mist to the ground at their feet. “Whatever it is, it will be alright.” 

Mother hiccoughed. She swallowed. She said, “Your father has arranged for you to marry a man.” 

Of all the things Charlotte had been expecting, it was not that. 

The words didn’t even make sense for a moment. As though Mother had spoken them in another language. They were only words. Only formations of the lips and tongue. They didn’t have any meaning that she could discern. They didn’t make any sense at all. 

But the devastation on her mother’s face made sense. 

“What?” Charlotte asked in a whisper. “No… No, I cannot marry. I am joining the convent. Remember? Sister—Sister Martha is expecting me, I will be living there, I will be taking my vows—” 

“God has chosen a different path for you.” Mother’s lip trembled, tears threatening to spill from her again. “Your father was possessed by the Holy Ghost when he made the arrangement.” 

Charlotte couldn’t make sense of it. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t understand. Her brow furrowing, she glanced down at the blades of grass, inspecting them for discrepancies. She clasped her hands together and gave a firm, sharp pinch. Anything that might betray this as a dream, as not real. It felt like a dream. It didn’t feel real. 

“Oh, I did not want to be the one to tell you,” Mother wailed. “It is such a heavy burden, is it not? To obey God, to do as He asks… I don’t know how you do it, my love. I have been feeling sick with all this anxiety… I… Oh, goodness, I’m seeing stars…” 

“Mother?” Charlotte steadied her by the shoulders, worried she would truly faint. 

“I… I am alright…” 

“Please don’t work yourself up,” Charlotte whispered. “I—I am not angry with you.” 

Her mother sagged with relief. “Oh, you’re not?” 

“Of course not,” Charlotte said quietly. 

She just didn’t understand it. 

Father Raymond had been the one who suggested joining a religious order in the first place. He had introduced Charlotte to Sister Martha. He had been so pleased with the direction God had chosen for her life. Why had he changed his mind? 

And more importantly, why had God changed her path? 

Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. Charlotte stopped searching the world for answers. She stopped searching the depths of her mind. She drew her focus to her Lord, joining Him in prayer, asking Him to reveal this to her. She opened up her heart. She searched for the warm embrace of Jesus, the conviction in her gut, the communion with Him. She waited for Him to speak. 

She was met with only silence. 

Not so much as a flicker of His presence. 

It almost broke her. 

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, her throat tightening with grief and anguish. 

Lord, my Lord, do not abandon me in this hour, I plea. I am forever at your service. I will go wherever you lead me. I will not forsake you. I will follow any path you set before me. I only need to hear from you. Please, Jesus, please only speak…  

Silence. 

Holy Mother, sweet Mary, to thee I ask, bring my prayers to your most sacred Son. Please ask that He might provide me with an answer. Please ask that I might hear His voice. That I might know what He wishes for me to do. 

Silence. 

“It is alright,” her mother whispered, taking Charlotte in an embrace, even as she stayed stiff. “We will get through this. We will pray on it. We will meet with Father Raymond together. Please, darling girl, do not stay angry…” 

“I am not angry,” she said quietly. 

“Then neither be in mourning.” Her mother pulled back, cupping her face, stroking her cheek. “This will be a beautiful, beautiful thing. You have always wanted to serve God… Perhaps this is how. Your betrothed is a man who has lost his way… What could be more godly than helping him find it? What better purpose for your faith than to save a man like him?” 

“A man like him?” Charlotte questioned, her voice shaking, her eyes wide and frightened. He sounded violent. He sounded like darkness.

“No, no, no,” her mother hushed, tutting and reassuring. “He has suffered hardship. The world has almost broken him. He needs your light, little dove. He is a strong man who will guide you, keep you safe. You will thank us. You will thank your God. If he changes because of you, you will have done something truly holy.” She shook her head. “Your calling isn’t to hide in a convent. It’s to serve through sacrifice. What’s more noble, after all… praying behind closed doors, or saving a soul? Saints bled for their Lord. You just have to be a wife, little dove.” 

It was the Holy Spirit speaking through her. It had to be. Mother never spoke like this before. Never had she seemed so close to God. 

It was only that He’d gone completely silent on Charlotte.

Like a best friend ignoring her on the playground while she watches with a pit in her stomach, wondering what she had done wrong and coming up none the wiser. Or a displeased parent saying not a word over dinner, leaving her to squirm in her seat and wonder if she ought to apologise before they leave the table and it becomes too late. 

Perhaps God was angry with her for questioning it. For questioning Him. 

Perhaps she was not acting with faith and obedience, but with doubt. Perhaps she was forsaking Him, after all. 

“I understand,” Charlotte whispered. 

Her mother’s face brightened at once. “You’ll do it?” 

Charlotte gave a slow, uneasy nod. “It’s… It’s what the Lord wants for me.” 

“I am so proud of you, darling.” 

Charlotte tried to smile. Her smiles usually came so easily. But this one felt more like a grimace, which only made her feel worse. God loves a cheerful giver. How had she become so wound up in her own decisions that she now refused to serve him, or did so begrudgingly? How had she presumed to be God herself, to dictate her own life without service or submission? 

She needed to change. She needed to stop. But she couldn’t help it. 

From that moment on, her hands began to shake, and they never quite ceased.

Chapter Text

Crowds gathered around the church not for Tommy or Charlotte in particular, but for the spectacle of it all. 

There’d been a time when Tommy shunned such attention. The camera flashes used to be no more than a nuisance to him, or a necessary evil he ignored as best he could. Three seconds for a photograph if it were an important cause. Today, the cameras were the whole point, more than papers or rings or the words of a Priest. 

He knew the first round of opinions would be mixed—mixed putting it lightly. He knew the union would raise eyebrows, though the justification afforded them a measure of mercy. A troubled man turning his life around. A redeemed politician. 

Not that everyone was merciful.

“Who is she?” Lizzie had asked, her knuckles turning white as she gripped his office desk after storming in unannounced. 

News of the engagement had spread fast. Tommy could tolerate Lizzie’s judgement. He’d already had to deal with it from… Who? Who was left? Polly was gone. It didn’t matter that he could hear her unimpressed muttering woven through vivid dreams each night when he closed his eyes. John might have found a bit of cheer in the situation, were he not burnt to ash years ago. Michael was dead after betraying him. Only Arthur remained, still oscillating between stumbling over like a wreck and failed attempts at sobriety. His attitude towards the matter changed depending on how many drugs he’d taken. Linda thought little enough of Tommy already. Finn was as good as dead. Isiah had clapped him on the back and bought him a drink, and Johnny Dogs had raised a toast in celebration. Charlie and Curly stayed silent on the matter, but begrudgingly lifted their glasses. Aberama had taken to the road. Ada’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

There was very little left for Tommy here in Birmingham. While that made it easier to infiltrate the social circles of the political elite, it also left him with too many gaps in his defense. Not nearly enough people left that he could trust. Duke had clapped him on the shoulder and said he was happy for him. Ruby watched him in those same dreams that Polly wrapped words around. Ruby hadn’t said anything yet. She hadn’t said a word. Only watched. 

Lizzie let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, you sick fuck.” 

“Lizzie—” 

“Tell me who she is, Tom. The poor girl deserves to know. She deserves to be told what she’s in for. The whores. The guns. The fucking absence of a husband—” 

“Lizzie.” Tommy’s eyebrows raised, his voice low and serious. “You say a word to my future wife, and I’ll make sure you regret it.” 

His words stung. They cut her deeply. He could tell, could see it. Though he’d never loved her as a wife, he’d grown to love her as family. As Ruby’s mother. They’d been together long enough that he knew her well. He knew the expressions that marked her face. He knew the way her body reacted to a certain touch. He didn’t love her, but he loved her. He didn’t want to see her hurt. 

But she needed to be handled like a wild dog at times. With a firm hand, strict boundaries that he would not tolerate being crossed. If left to roam, she would destroy. She would become a liability. 

“Moved on awfully quick,” she said. 

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “You left me, Lizzie.” 

“And the ink’s barely bloody dry on the divorce papers.” 

“Why are you here?” 

Lizzie hissed, “Because whoever she is, she deserves better.” Then with a scoff and a shake of her head, “Is it true what they’re saying?” 

Tommy had neither the time nor patience for this. Lizzie continued regardless.

“That this is you cleaning up your life? That you took out all the rubbish and now you’re a reformed man?” 

“Lizzie—” 

“ Working for the better of England, ” she quoted in disgust. “Right. That doesn’t include the whore ex-wife, then.” 

“For fuck’s sake, if you would—” 

“How do you do it, Tommy?” she asked. “How do you sleep at night? How can you bear looking into a fucking mirror?” 

The question ran through his mind as he turned from the church steps, as the cameras continued to flash, as he made his way inside. Waiting at the altar, he might have been carved from marble. Right up until he finally moved to light a cigarette, earning a silent rebuke from Ada glaring at him from the front row. In another life, it might have been comical. Ada Shelby, sitting in a church beside nationalists. Had he met half the people on her row? Could he name even half the people filling the church? It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a wedding, but a business meeting. He’d been hoping for a marriage settlement and a courthouse, but neither looked good in the papers. It seemed everything these days revolved around paper. 

Tommy responded to Ada’s glare with a shrug and a stream of smoke curling from his lips. When the organ began to play, he stubbed the cigarette out, and lifted his gaze to meet his wife for the first time. 

Clean as a bar of soap. 

The fabric of Charlotte’s gown dragged like lead behind her. It had been chosen by her mother and approved by her father and fitted by women who spoke of hems and lace while she tried to steady her hands. She’d not been permitted to see Thomas beforehand, and nor would she have wanted to. She’d prayed without ceasing in the days leading up to this. All she received back was silence.

Thomas Shelby was a divorcé. His last wife had been a harlot. He had a criminal record and owned more businesses and factories than any man had the right to, as Charlotte learned from the extensive marriage settlement her father had signed. How the marriage was even permitted in the Church escaped Charlotte, though her parents had insisted there would be no issue, that Father Raymond knew this to be a holy matter. But each time she felt the heaviness in her stomach that something was deeply wrong with this situation, she felt the churnings of guilt along with it. God was silent. She needed to trust Him in the silence. That meant trusting His plan, and therefore, her husband. 

She recognised Thomas from the photographs and newspaper clippings. His suit was immaculately cut, his hair slicked and shining, but there was something almost… inhuman about seeing him in the flesh. Something in his gaze that sent a chill through her bones. When their eyes met for the first time, she flinched. It was too sharp. Too piercing. He blinked once, as though to soften it, but did not look away. 

He looked as though he’d lived his life over already. Hardened and forged by the fires of the world, by war, by God only knew what else. Charlotte tried to picture him kneeling at her side to pray each night. She wondered what his voice would sound like, reading his favourite verses and passages aloud. It might be that he would bring her a measure of comfort. She could not judge Thomas harshly, not now, not under such circumstances. She ought to offer him a smile. It was only that her face was completely frozen. 

Tommy’s mind was not on the ceremony, or the woman standing before him. What did any of it matter, what did any of it mean? He’d taken vows before and he’d always taken them with certainty. But what came of them? Death. Betrayal. Loss. Still, his voice did not falter as he repeated the words. Being his third marriage, he ought to know them by heart by now. 

Though his voice stayed steady, Charlotte’s cracked. It sliced through her soft and gentle words, so soft he could not imagine her capable of ever shouting. Lizzie shouted incessantly, by the end of things. He wondered if Charlotte had ever raised her voice in her life. 

Once pronounced man and wife, Thomas pressed the briefest kiss to her lips. Charlotte had never been kissed before, had never felt another man’s lips touch her own. She’d tried to imagine it when she was younger but even in her thoughts it never felt right. It never felt like a path meant for her. Even now it felt foreign, surprising. As though she couldn’t reconcile the word kiss with the action, with the gentle pressure, with the scent of cigarettes. 

There were flashbulbs. Neat applause. She thought of the dark bedroom in the convent. The iron-wrought bed and the small table beneath the window and the crucifix on the wall. The image was gone as soon as it came. She had to smile for the photographs, and it would not do to look afraid. It would not do to look afraid at all. 

Arrow House was too quiet when they arrived. Grand houses and estates did not scare Charlotte. Not usually. But tonight there were too many servants and too many walls and too much polished wood echoing each step she took. Thomas was quiet. Silent. He’d not said a word to her since taking their vows. Had she disappointed him? Charlotte kept her eyes lowered and followed him through the building, wishing she could attune a radio set to his thoughts and discern what he was thinking. The rosary beads in her palm dug tiny marks into her skin. She hoped that the harder she clutched, her hands might stop shaking. It wasn’t working. 

Thomas didn’t seem hurried or bothered. His shoes clicked across the floors and up the stairs and he waved away the last servant for the night. When they reached the bedroom, he opened the door, but would not look at her as she faltered then slipped inside. 

Tommy watched through a heavy gaze as his new wife came to stand at the foot of the bed, turning and casting her eyes slowly across the room. She swallowed twice and the sound echoed through the air. She was clutching rosary beads like a shield, and out of respect, he did not scoff. Her lips moved as though she wanted to speak but could not choke out the words. 

Tommy shrugged off his coat and laid it over the chair. He wouldn’t be re-wearing these clothes—at least, not unless he was unlucky enough to stand at the altar for a fourth time in his life—but still he moved carefully, methodically. Watch. Cufflinks. Tie. Everything in order, as if he were preparing for a meeting or negotiation. That’s all this was. A deal to be signed. A binding clause. 

“...full of grace,” Charlotte was whispering, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “The lord is with thee. Blessed art—” 

“You can pray later,” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette. The spark wheel bit into his thumb like teeth. 

Charlotte flinched when he spoke. “I must pray now,” she said. 

“Pray for what?” Tommy asked, brows puzzling together. He took a step towards her.

A light dusting of pink filled her cheeks. The colour reminded Tommy of something, though it took him a moment to place it. The flowers at Polly’s old house. “For… For you.” 

“For me?” Tommy repeated. 

Charlotte said nothing. She only swallowed again. Smoke filled the air between them and burnt on Tommy’s tongue. 

He said, “Pray for me, then.” 

Her eyes flew to his, wide with fright. Tommy did not know if she would obey. If she would challenge him. 

Clean as a bar of…

“Lord, have mercy on him,” Charlotte whispered. Her gaze dropped to the floorboards. “Forgive his sins… Forgive mine…” 

“Louder,” Tommy said. 

“Forgive him, Lord.” Her cheeks burned scarlet. Her dress was pure white. “Grant him peace. Grant him salvation, no matter…” 

His hand came to her chin. Forced it to raise, for her to lift her eyes to meet him. Charlotte felt like a wounded bird, trembling and useless. Why? Why this? Why was this His plan for her? 

“Eyes open,” her husband murmured. 

Charlotte obeyed. She did not cry. To her credit, she did not cry, and she did not confess that she was afraid. Thomas drew on his cigarette and she could not pray with him watching like this; she could barely think. But she pushed ahead. Stammering and faltering, she forced the words out. 

“Our father, who… who art in…” 

She was displeasing him. Of course she was displeasing him. She was getting this all wrong and everything was all wrong. The veil had not covered her face since arriving at the altar, but still he pulled it free from her hair and tossed it onto the chair. It hung translucent over his coat. Covering it in film. 

“You’ve said enough.” 

He’d meant to free Charlotte from her misery. But the silence that rushed in to replace her words felt more cruel to them both. Ought he to draw this out? To sit them both down together, to make pleasant discussion for an hour or two over a drink? There was no sense in prolonging the inevitable. It was bad business, and this was business. No use blurring lines unnecessarily. 

He pushed her back until her knees hit the mattress and she sat down. Such wide eyes. Such trembling hands, still clutching the rosary. Tommy drew the last of his cigarette before stubbing it out, then began to unbutton his shirt. 

She was still praying. Silently. He could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t here. Maybe it was better for them both that she wasn’t here. Maybe he ought not to be here, either. But curiosity alongside duty stirred something in him. Not lust. Not tenderness. He didn’t think he was capable of anything so human, so normal. But nor could he think what to call it. He’d never been a self-loathing man, and so he brushed away the flicker of disgust he felt at his own actions. Business. 

Once finished undressing, he climbed onto the bed beside her. Every movement was mechanical. Detached. One hand at her shoulder, the other guiding her waist. Charlotte did not resist. He was waiting for her to resist. Would it be when he took a moment to drag his thumb across her throat, noticing the softness of her skin? Or when he untied her bodice, steady and methodical? 

He did not explore her or linger as he had with Grace. Did not seek to learn her, to feel her, to soak in the warmth of another person and know them as well as himself. Nor did he treat her with the curiosity he had with Lizzie. The release and primal drive to claim something, anything, and know it was his. He was gentler than he’d be with a whore. Less detached than when it was blackmail. He didn’t know what to call this or how to justify any of it. 

Only that he entered her, and her breath caught on a broken sob as she burned and he couldn’t bear to see if she was crying. He closed his eyes and moved with a grim rhythm. A necessity. She was whispering again and he listened with a strange fascination, almost disturbed by the way she endured it. Her hands clutched the sheets. Those fucking beads were still clutched in her fingers, and so he took her by the wrists, feeling the blood rushing with the words she continued to stammer.

“Forgive him,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering open. “Lord, please forgive him…” 

For a moment, Tommy nearly faltered. The words cut deeper than they should have, deeper than they had any right to. He thrust into her harder, unsure if he was trying to drown out the words or force her into silence. Finally she fell quiet, and only the sound of their breath filled the room, and he didn’t think he’d ever known relief like the moment her head tipped back and she let out a choked gasp that told him she didn’t entirely detest what he was doing, and he could finally fulfill the marriage. All terms satisfied, all conditions met, it was done. He had a wife. He had a wife who loathed him and loathed herself too much to admit it even in her prayers. They rattled around inside his head, joining the other memories and visions that plagued him in the dark. 

When it was over, Thomas rolled away and poured a glass of whiskey. The smell of it choked Charlotte’s throat. She was rarely so close to spirits, only communion wine. But it did not affect her for long before he downed the glass in one swallow then lit another cigarette. No, her husband would not be kneeling beside her in prayer each evening, or reading aloud his favourite scriptures. That much was certain. 

Charlotte curled up on her side, an ache blossoming between her legs. She continued to pray. It was all she had, and with only silence in return, she clung to it more fiercely than ever. Filling the silence. The silence with God, the silence in her marriage bed. What would happen if she stopped, if she succumbed to the quiet? It did not bear thinking about. 

Thomas did not offer her any comfort. He did not touch her. Did not say anything, other than a strange muttering about soap. He smoked, and Charlotte closed her eyes, and the silence of heaven crushed her bones more painfully than anything of the earth could.

Chapter Text

At first when Charlotte woke, she thought she was in the convent. 

It was only that she had been dreaming about it. Simple dreams, pleasant ones. Scrubbing neat circles into the tiles with a bristle brush, inhaling the smell of incense at mass. When her eyes first fluttered open, she thought herself in her new room. Sunlight fought to reach her through the curtains, and she was at peace. The bed empty beside her. Rosary still woven through her fingers. 

Things felt sore and strange and that was the first inkling that she’d mispieced things together. The reality of Arrow House sunk upon her like a weight, and the lovely dream faded away until she could hardly remember it at all. Not the smell of the polish, nor the incense. Here, there were creaking floorboards and clanging pipes. 

Charlotte sat upright and rifled through the bedsheets, wondering if she would find blood. There was none. She closed her eyes. It was too sinful a prayer to utter, her thanks that she had a husband who neither noticed or cared. 

There were better prayers to serve the day, and she clambered out of bed to kneel on the carpet, fibres digging grooves into her knees as she whispered her way through the morning offering. Someone had brought up her lone cardboard box full of possessions, and once finished, she plucked her way through one of the books of prayers and psalms and devotionals. There was only a handful of other belongings. Mostly clothes. Two pairs of shoes. One set of jewellery for special occasions. 

Soul of Christ, sanctify me. 

Body of Christ, save me. 

Blood of Christ, inebriate me. 

No answer came. Not even the warmth and peace that she had known since she was a young girl. Perhaps He truly had abandoned her. 

She washed away such thoughts as soon as they came. No, she was familiar with the plight of Job. She knew it was not her place to question. She knew His ways were so beyond her own, she could never hope to understand them. She would not be weakened by silence. She would not forsake her faith when it was tested. In that case, it wouldn’t be faith at all. 

When she stood, pins and needles prickled across her knees and there was no incense in the room. Only the memory of cigarette smoke. She pushed the window open and prepared to face the day. 

Tommy was already at the table. He hadn’t slept much. He never did. His eyes raked across the morning news, paper rustling in his hands. He might as well permanently attach the glasses to his eyes, the amount he was wearing them lately, the amount of work there always seemed to be to get through. Already, his mind was running a conveyor belt of things that would need addressing, adding bits and pieces from the news. Worker’s strike in the city. Tensions with the mainland. He missed the days when a headline was only a headline. Now they represented hours of letters and phone calls and meetings. 

To make matters worse, there he was, on the third page. New bride on his arm. Outside the church. Businessman turned politician… hints at new ties in parliament… Ellesmeres known for their stance on nationalism and economy laws… Not the angle he’d been hoping for, but that was the press for you. Unless he was willing to forge relationships with journalists, they had free rein to run wild. 

Charlotte paused by the doorway as though waiting to be invited in. Ought she wait to be invited? Her mother did not, but then her mother had been married for nearly thirty years. Charlotte wondered if someday she could say the same for herself, and then she felt very sick. Still no invitation came. She doubted her husband had even seen her. Rather than embarrass herself, she took her seat quietly and busied her trembling hands folding a napkin across her lap. 

It was difficult to look at Thomas without gawking at him. She found herself strangely shy in his presence, ignored though she was. They had been joined in a way only man and wife could be, yet today it was as though such a thing had never happened. How could this man be the same one who had taken her last night? She could not even fully comprehend that they were married. Her glance fell onto the gold ring at his finger, then the one on her own. She still was not used to the pressure of it. The weight. They were strangers. 

“Do you take sugar?” she finally asked with a glance at the drinks tray. It seemed like something a new wife might say. Something she ought to know. 

Thomas did not glance up from the paper. “No.” 

After a moment, Charlotte poured her own drink and stirred so gently the spoon made no sound at all. She did not take sugar either, only a little milk, but each time she made to voice the words, to chatter about anything at all, her courage failed her. 

A maid placed eggs and fried tomatoes before them both. The smell made Charlotte’s stomach flip. She could barely look at the runny yolks spilling across the plate, or the gloopy pink tomatoes running their juices all across the china. But she ought to eat. She did not yet know how mealtimes worked here, and there might be no more on offer until tea. 

Her husband finally spoke after several minutes, folding his paper in half. “We’ll be seen at Saint Michael’s this Sunday.” 

“Saint Michael’s?” Charlotte repeated. Perhaps she’d measured him all wrong, after all. 

"It photographs well.” His eyebrows raised. “We’ll sit in the front pew and leave straight after the last hymn.”

“Oh.” Charlotte smoothed her napkin. She liked to visit the chapel after a service. To light a candle, spend some time in prayer, attend reconciliation. But it did not seem a very wifely thing to say so. “Saint Michael’s is very beautiful,” she landed on instead. It was part of the convent’s worship rotation. She might see Sister Martha. 

Apparently Thomas knew it, too. “The Priest won’t speak to you about vows?” 

It tasted like a forbidden sweet to even talk about. “No. He will not speak to me.” 

“Good.” 

Tommy spent the day in his study. The office needed him, but he didn’t want to leave Charlotte alone in Arrow House on her first day. He’d already tried inviting Ada around for company, but after ten minutes of being hissed at through the phone that she was neither a babysitter nor willing to encourage his ‘latest fit of fancy’ as she was referring to the marriage, quickly abandoned the idea. 

The typewriter scarcely stopped all day. Nor did the phone, nor did the visitations of office runners delivering urgent documents requiring his signature. It seemed Arthur had gone off the rails for the day, though nobody was brave enough to tell him so directly. That left him and Ada to hold down the fort, then. Hardly an exciting prospect. 

Charlotte, meanwhile, explored the house in narrow loops. She was loath to touch anything for fear of leaving traces of herself. As though this were a crime scene and she had to be careful not to contaminate clues. She pictured herself with a magnifying glass in hand, in a top-hat and trench-coat, trying to piece together the puzzle of Arrow House. Who lived here? Who had come before her? Why did God wish to contain her inside these walls?

She traced a small cross on the doorway of each room she entered, absent-mindedly, as though unaware she was even doing it. There were around half a dozen people in service at Arrow House, she soon learned, though somehow it felt like more. Maybe because it was a smaller house than she was used to, or maybe they were just more relaxed about being seen. Back at home, it was more than a servant’s job was worth to be seen in the main halls or rooms. Here, it was not uncommon to find a maid building a fire or dusting down ornaments. 

Charlotte crossed Thomas in the corridors only twice. She froze still each time. But he only nodded at her as he walked past, the way one might nod at a distant neighbour or an acquaintance, and she clasped her hands tightly together, trying to make them still. 

She had been right to eat breakfast. It turned out that her husband ate very little, and no more food was on offer until the sun had already begun to dip in the sky. Tentatively she waited at the dinner table, her mind full of gentle statements and questions to ease the silence over dinner. But when food came, it was just the one plate, venison and vegetables and mashed potatoes. Charlotte glanced expectantly at the maid, and then at the empty chairs, but there was no explanation given. She was to eat alone. 

Charlotte bowed her head and said grace before picking up her cutlery. There was a glass of red wine she did not touch, and a crystal ashtray that stayed empty. Was this the fate of his last wife, she wondered? Left to drink and smoke alone into the late hours of the night, stomach curdling on meals eaten alone or not eaten at all? It troubled her. 

But just as she finished her plate, a different maid appeared. “Mr Shelby would like to see you in the study, Ma’am.” 

Ma’am. It was such a strange address. One used for her mother. It rattled around in Charlotte’s head as she stood in the doorway of the study and waited for her husband to glance up from his work, feeling once again like she had to wait for an invitation. This time, however, his gaze lifted to see her. 

“Sit,” he said, gesturing at the chair opposite his desk. She obeyed. 

Tommy’s head was still full of the day, and he had a good hour or two left before he could think about stopping for the night. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day, and he would need three more of himself to ever keep pace with everything. Isiah and Duke were easily delegated to, and Charlie was overseeing most of the racing division these days, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. His duties in politics frequently fell to the back-burner because they were less disastrous and less prone to urgent crises, and it was becoming a problem. He couldn't let anything slip through the cracks. Small, trivial matters, such as his marriage, ought to be addressed before they began to add to his mental load.

“My previous marriages were…” Tommy searched for the word. None seemed to fit. “Loud. This one will not be. You’ll attend when you’re told and speak when spoken to. The rest of the time is yours to keep as you wish.” 

“I understand.” 

His eyes flickered to Charlotte’s hands in her lap. They were shaking. Shaking as though she’d killed as many men as he had. His face was inscrutable as he asked with a pointed nod, “And that?” 

Charlotte squeezed her fingers together until they hurt. “That will stop.” 

Rather than address the matter further, Tommy lit a cigarette. “The Hospital phoned. We’ve an appearance there on Thursday.” 

From his new wife’s silence, and the grooves between her eyebrows, he worried at first that she would take issue with it. But when she spoke, she surprised him.

“May I visit the chapel afterwards?” Charlotte asked. 

Her eyes were wide, pleading. She was like a child asking for a pony for Christmas, rather than a grown woman requesting to visit a church. Something about it hardened Tommy. Something about it didn’t sit right with him. Many things didn’t sit right with him, but there was no use in dwelling on it. 

“Visit any chapel you want,” he said. “Doesn’t look bad in a newspaper.” 

Her shoulders loosened. “Thank you.” 

He exhaled and focused on the smoke trailing from his cigarette rather than look at her as he said the words. “I’ll come to you tonight.” 

He was becoming familiar with the sound of her swallow. “As you wish.” 

“Not as I wish,” he said, being as honest as he knew how. “As required.” 

She nodded like he had told her about the weather. She wasn’t praying anymore. Not here, not in the study. Perhaps the constant stream from her lips had been post-wedding nerves, or perhaps it would be reserved only for when they slept together. Tommy would soon find out. 

When he came to her that night she was kneeling on the floor, elbows on the mattress, fingers clasped before her. Hushed whispering. He listened for a moment. She ran through them rote, then wove in prayers more personal. Her mother, her father, her parish community. It seemed nobody was spared or forgotten. 

A red ribbon pulled back her hair, the large loops drooping like a sad rabbit’s ears. Her rosary hung from her fingers in kind, crucifix swinging gently with each breath. Just when he thought she’d finished, she took the crucifix and began praying the rosary. It seemed she enjoyed her rituals, his wife. He was almost sorry to interrupt when she faltered at the sound of his shoes, his watch, his tie, as he undressed, though she did not turn around. 

Tommy knelt behind her. Her hair was like spun silk and he pushed it over her shoulder, fingers catching on the ribbon before he took her nightgown in his hands. “Keep going,” he said, resting his cheek against her shoulder. “Don’t stop.” 

She continued, and her hands shook, and Tommy stilled them with his own. He pinned them against the sheets and looked at the shape of her body in the dim light. Not like a lover. Like a man taking inventory of an asset, wondering how he’ll justify it to the accountant. How he’ll justify it to himself.

“Say my name,” he said, and she took him in without complaint and then he began to move. 

It was the first time she had defied him. “I… I can’t.” 

He’d expected the answer. He slowed for a moment, but then made her his all the same, and it might have been all the fucking piety, but he took an oath to himself as she shuddered beneath him and the first gasp fell from her lips. No whores. Not this time. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He thought of Lizzie, the way she broke piece-by-piece each time he crawled into another bed. Charlotte would break cleaner than glass. And if she broke, the whole façade broke with her. 

No whores, then. Not because he couldn’t, but because he wouldn’t risk it. It was brand protection. Practical calculation. No loose ends or blackmail. Tommy Shelby had cleaned up his act, and with it, might be enough to sway the voters teetering along the fence.

The alternative was letting them fall to people like the Ellesmeres.

Chapter Text

Thomas came to her for two nights, and then he did not. 

Charlotte lay in the cold bed, staring up at the patterned ceiling, trying to mentally retrace images in the dark. It had been salmon for dinner with pumpkin and wilted spinach and it had tasted cold as she ate alone. She knew her husband was busy. Busier than usual? She could not say. There were telegrams from Boston and auditors in long, black coats, and he’d been out of Arrow House all day for two days, dealing with matters at his office. Was he still there now, as night deepened and morning approached? Was it a dinner? Her parents loved dinners. They frequently used them to network. Charlotte thought of more cold salmon or venison. A familiar set of faces around a too-large table and cigarette smoke filling up the room. 

She rolled over in the bed, wrapped up in Egyptian cotton and feeling more like she was in a tomb with every passing second. Charlotte could not tell if she preferred her husband’s presence or his absence. Only that each offered her a different sort of relief. 

She’d run through all her rote prayers and any others that came to mind. She’d prayed for his safety, for peace in his business, for contentment among his voters. That was her duty as wife, after all, was it not? 

Unable to sleep and hearing only silence, Charlotte finally rose from the bed and made her way across the landing. It wouldn't be gluttonous to fetch a glass of milk—not when the sum of her days was currently two eggs and a portion of meat or fish. But the sound of the front door froze her before she even made it to the staircase, hovering like a statue with one arm outstretched for the walnut rail. Was it Thomas? A burglar? The low voices of men returning home at night reached her ears. Only Arthur’s laugh was loud, slicing through the air like broken glass. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Tom,” he was slurring. “All the grief… All the fookin’ grief you gave me, now look at you…” 

Thomas didn’t raise his voice. “Go home with Isiah. Sleep. Come back when you’re bloody useful.” 

“And who are you using now, Tommy? Eh? Who are you using now?” 

Arthur was troubled. Charlotte’s brow lowered into a frown. This was a different world to the one she was used to. Arthur was a liability. Akin to seeing Thomas wounded, or disabled, or otherwise vulnerable in a way that left him open to attack and open to losing everything. The politicians she knew would never permit such a liability in their home. They would seek to scrub their lives clean of him, and she could not understand why her husband would not do the same. Could it be that he was a compassionate man? 

Charlotte scarpered quickly away back to bed before she could be caught eavesdropping. She lay in the bed-come-tomb, heart hammering beneath the sheets, wondering if she would be joined. But he didn’t come, and the sky turned to a light grey, and so she knelt on the carpet and began to pray for Arthur. 

It seemed the Shelby family at large shared Thomas’s disregard for honeymoon periods. Though Charlotte’s parents had prepared her that he would be too busy to spend time abroad, she thought they might have shared more time together at home after being married before it was back to business as usual. But after coming home in the dark and sending Arthur on his way, Thomas only showered and dressed in a clean suit before leaving again. Not a word passed between them. Charlotte frowned. Today was Thursday and they were meant to be going to the hospital. Ought she to remind him? Simply go alone? 

She lingered about the house, feeling rather lost and unsure what to do with herself. Her days back home had been filled with helping the parish, but it was too far from here to go, even if she did have an automobile or someone to drive it, which she did not. She could tap out a tune at the piano, or embroider a cloth, or read a book, but it all felt so pointless. She filled an hour or two at each end of the day with prayer and the rosary and her missal, but became increasingly ever-anxious. Such tasks had once filled her with calm and joy. Now, they were wrapped in the fateful question—would she finally hear? Would her time wandering alone in the desert come to an end? What was she doing wrong? How could she make it right? Like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box she wound tighter and tighter, and much like the presence of her husband, she could not tell if she felt worse in the depths of her worship or in the times in-between. 

By noon, she received her first visitor. Ada Shelby came swooping into the morning room wearing a fuchsia coat with cheeks coloured to match, owing to the cold breeze outdoors. Charlotte became very still. 

“Tommy out at the office?” Ada asked. Though she’d spared no time on pleasantries, the words did not leave her unkindly. 

Charlotte nodded. “I suppose so.” 

Ada knew the maids by name and one of them brought out tea without needing to be asked. The two of them made polite discussion while Charlotte sat in silence, chewing on a scotch finger until it turned to sludge in her mouth. She found she couldn’t swallow. 

Ada didn’t touch the tea, but took instead to studying her. Charlotte felt like an insect beneath a magnifying glass. She searched her brains for something to say, but it was no use. Tommy hadn’t told her anything about his sister. He'd not told her anything about much at all. 

“Work seems busy,” she finally said. 

“It always is.” Ada lit a cigarette, and Charlotte tried not to stare at the smoke, tried not to flinch at the memory of how it would coat her bare body like a veil. “I didn’t expect you to be real,” Ada added. 

Charlotte frowned. “I’m sorry?” 

“I thought your father might have made you up,” she said simply, glancing down at the ashtray as she flicked her ash. “Or exaggerated, at least. Pretty for photographs, but otherwise a cog in their machine.” 

Her eyes were sharp as they landed on Charlotte once more. She swallowed her impatience. The political world was corrupt. Her faith belonged to her Lord alone, no matter how fiercely her parents tried to persuade her otherwise, no matter how many men and women she’d met who supposed her to care a great deal more than she did. 

“I don’t much care for the machine,” Charlotte said. 

“Tommy thinks machines keep men alive,” Ada continued. “He forgets they grind things up.” 

“As I said.” Charlotte ducked her head to her tea. “I don’t much care for them.” 

Ada seemed to accept this much at least. But then she said, “You were going to become a nun.” 

“I was.” 

“What changed your mind?” 

Charlotte prayed she would not flush. “That’s a very personal question.” 

“Forgive me.” Ada’s lips twitched in an almost-smile. “I don’t mean to pry.” 

“Tell me about yourself,” Charlotte said, plucking another scotch finger for something to steady her hands. 

“There’s not much left to tell,” Ada said stiffly. “Not anymore.” She recovered herself. “And you?” 

“I don’t have much either,” Charlotte replied. “Not yet.” 

“Christ,” Ada muttered. “Tommy really is a bastard.” 

Charlotte didn’t know what to say. “He has been decent.” 

“Decent because he’s not been here.” 

Charlotte’s ears pricked up at the crunch of gravel, the hum of an engine, barely perceptible but steadily growing louder. “Actually, that sounds like him now.” 

Ada rose and pried back the sheer curtain, glancing out into the dreary world outside. “That’s him,” she said evenly. 

“Ought I leave you to it?” Charlotte asked, hoping she didn’t sound as hopeful as she felt. 

“No. No, I’d best be off.” Ada took to winding a thick scarf around her neck, and then fussing with her coat and gloves, while Charlotte waited patiently. Ada hovered, chewing over words before she spoke them. “You seem like a decent girl, Charlotte.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Which makes me think you don’t share your parents’ views. Not at heart.” Ada paused. “If Tommy intends to switch sides, he’ll be counting on you to make it tolerable.” She met her eyes. “Don’t let him.” 

Before Charlotte could muster a reply, the front door opened. Ada rustled herself together and took off, exchanging the briefest farewell with Tommy as she went. 

He eyed her for only a moment, perplexed. Ada had refused to come to Arrow House at his invitation, yet chose the morning he’d been hurried into parliament to drop by. Her face betrayed nothing. She was gone before he could question it further. 

Charlotte hovered like a ghost, hands clasped together. When Tommy approached, she stepped aside as though to make way for him. He stopped. Tendrils of hair had fallen around her face and they caught the light as she carefully lifted her gaze. He wondered what Ada might have said. He briefly entertained the idea of asking, before dismissing it entirely. It did not matter.

“Put on a coat,” he said. “We’re going to the hospital.” 

She perked up like a dog being told she’d be going for a walk. Tommy frowned. Had she not left the house today? Come to think of it, had she left the house at all? 

One person or another had arranged the cameras before they arrived. Matrons had scrubbed the place clean and nurses awaited them in perfectly ironed uniforms and aprons. The most photogenic children with the mildest ailments had been chosen. Tommy ought to be in political meetings discussing the Bill that was causing such a headache, and here he was instead, like some Hollywood starlet posing for a photograph. 

He placed a light hand on the small of Charlotte’s back. She did not flinch away. Not here, where eyes could see. He looked every inch the reformed man voters could love. Sober. Clean. Generous. It was with an air of awkwardness and a cough to clear his throat that he presented the cheque to the hospital staff. A nurse clasped a hand over her mouth at the figure. There were flashes and clicks, and when Tommy finally turned back to the cameras, he hoped they’d be finished, but they were trained keenly on his wife who had drifted away.

They followed her, in fact, through the corridor. One of the kids put on display had her by the hand and was leading her. Bemused and trying not to feel upstaged, Tommy followed, keeping his face blank and even. 

“This is the ward for consumption,” the child said, her voice barely a whisper, and she had long dark hair and when she turned she looked just like Ruby, and Tommy’s entire spine went rigid. 

As though metal spikes had been drilled into every vertebrae and wrapped in copper wire that twisted tighter and tighter. His heartbeat pulsed through his ears and every movement felt like he was underwater, like he was lagging seconds behind. Charlotte tucked a mask over her ears. Charlotte allowed Ruby—no, not Ruby—to lead her inside. She vanished from view, and the photographers were crowding the one small doorway, and Tommy couldn't shove his way through the crowd. 

For a moment, he thought he might have been dreaming. One of the darker ones. 

He moved forward, though he couldn’t feel his legs. “Charlotte,” he called out. 

He couldn’t well shove but he could push through the photographers, with a hundred rounds of Excuse me, and a jittering heartbeat. “Charlotte?” He called out louder. He had to call out and it had to be loud because she would catch it and then he would and there would be two more graves bearing the Shelby name. 

Charlotte’s head snapped up. It had been bowed in prayer where she knelt beside the hospital bed. Half her face covered in white cloth, her eyes were surprised, questioning. She ran a hand through the hair of a child in bed. Blood stained his sheets, splatters from each time he coughed. The girl who looked like Ruby had vanished, as though she hadn’t existed at all. 

Tommy could feel sets of eyes upon him. He ought to leave it. He couldn’t leave it. 

“We’ll be late for the chapel,” he said. 

Charlotte gave a quick nod. She froze halfway to her feet, as though debating whether to leave or stay minutes longer. She whispered something to the child, and then became frightfully aware of so many sets of eyes upon her. She hadn’t realised the photographers had followed, or her husband. It clenched at her stomach with dread. She had one job and one purpose, and she might have just spoiled it for him entirely. It was only that the child had asked her to come and see. She had only wanted to pray. 

“Might we stop at the laboratory?” she whispered to Thomas once she had left the room and removed her mask, scarcely daring to look at him. She expected him to say no. 

He surprised her. He exhaled a breath. “My wife wishes to see the progress of medicine,” he said, sounding low on patience, and a nurse quickly roused herself to lead them there, photographers in tow. 

Not that they could deny him anything today, he thought, polished shoes clicking along the linoleum. Not after the cheque he’d written. His chest was finally beginning to loosen, the knots in his spine untying the further they went from the consumption ward. He felt a hollowness at his side that had once been Lizzie. It was the first time he’d come close to missing her. The only other person on the earth who knew what it had been like to lose Ruby. The last piece of her in this world. Tommy was white and close to shaking, but slowly colour came back into his face, and if his wife noticed, she said nothing.

“Might the cameras wait out here?” Charlotte whispered to a nurse, who gave a thin-lipped nod. 

“Authorised persons only, I’m afraid,” she told them, leading Charlotte and Tommy into the laboratory and closing the door behind them. 

It smelled of metal and disinfectant. There were vials of blood, brass scales, German microscopes and tubes and glass pipettes everywhere. Charlotte reached out a hand. Tommy didn’t understand it. Not at first. 

“Might I pray over them?” she asked the Nurse. “I’m no priest, of course.” 

The Nurse blinked in surprise. “Certainly.” 

She set to work. Whispering as she went, asking for blessings and praying over every sample in the room. Tommy watched with a morbid fascination. Caught between rolling his eyes and hanging onto her every word. On anyone else, it would seem like the ultimate performance. He could barely tolerate sitting next to Linda at dinner. When Arthur became a holy man, Tommy felt little more than disdain. But the world had a wicked sense of humour. His new wife might be the most devout in all of England. 

Was anyone listening? The question rolled through his mind for only a moment. No. Nobody was listening. And if He was, it was no God Tommy wished to know. Not after the things he’d seen. Not after Ruby. The thought of salvation disgusted him. He wanted no part in it. 

But still he drove Charlotte to the chapel afterwards, like rewarding a child on the way home from a boring day out. She slipped away when they arrived, and though Tommy had only meant to wait, there were other men lingering in the corridor. He did not enjoy lingering. After a few minutes, he ended up slipping after her. 

Charlotte knelt before the altar. It was quiet, and the blessed sacrament was on display, and she might have wept in joy. It may have been the warmth in the air, or the faint smell of incense, or purely her own imagination—but she felt something. She always felt something in the presence of the tabernacle. The sanctuary lamp burned, and her knees ached, and now that she was finally in His presence, she did not waste time or thought on herself. She prayed for every child in that hospital. Children should not suffer. They were already so vulnerable. It might be that someone had once prayed for her. 

She did not think she could ever finish, but eventually she did. Tears streaking down her face. Peace in her heart. Her husband’s voice threaded through the air and reached her, so quietly she could choose not to hear. 

“Go on.” 

She continued to weep in silence. Her God was working in Thomas. She could not praise Him enough. But she tried, and she whispered every word. Lord, be merciful to him. Forgive him his past. Tear the world’s daggers from his heart and turn him from darkness. Lord, keep him… Keep him… 

Her thoughts trailed. Her breath shivered. She felt him. Thomas, not God. Warm behind her. 

It was almost perverse, his curiosity. The mercilessness with which he would push until he met resistance. He gathered her hair in one hand, and she stayed silent, but her hands were still clasped together. 

“My daughter was ill,” he said quietly. “She was the most perfect girl in all the world. Someone laid a curse. The same curse that took my first wife. After that, she was gone.” 

Charlotte exhaled a shaky breath, but otherwise did not speak. Tommy’s hand tightened around her hair. 

“You tell your God that one day he’ll answer to me,” he said quietly. “And then you ask him to spare mercy for her soul.” If there was anyone in the world he might listen to, it would be her. 

Charlotte obeyed. Of course she obeyed. Through thick tears and a stabbing pain across her skull she obeyed, and afterwards in the car, neither of them spoke. Tommy’s jaw was tight, his hands still.

When they reached the house, he said only, “I’ll come to you tonight,” and left it there, as though they were discussing no more than milk deliveries.

Chapter Text

It became a ritual between them. Thomas would come to her. Some nights he told her to pray, and other nights he said, “Don’t.” Either way, Charlotte obeyed, and by the end of it she would feel tainted or empty. It felt as blasphemous to weave her prayers into such acts as it did to forsake them entirely, and neither option bridged the silence with God. Perhaps she simply wasn’t trying hard enough. 

Thomas did not touch her with tenderness and she did not learn to want it, though this act between them was the only sign they were married at all. One night, he drew his thumb across her lips before he kissed her. They did not kiss often. But on this night, his lips claimed hers, and though it had been a praying night, she found herself incapable of forming the words. 

Tommy filed her every reaction into the catalogue of his mind with so many other things. Votes. Men. Weaknesses. And each time afterwards, the same emptiness returned, the hollow feeling in the pit of his gut that he could never quite shake. He wondered if she ever felt it too, or if all the incessant mumbling filled the void. If that was what kept her sane, kept her willing, kept her tethered to his side without complaint. He would smoke a cigarette and stare at the ceiling and listen to her and wait for it to strike him in some way. To offer him the same comfort. None ever came. 

Between the nights there was daylight, and with it, little else to sustain a marriage. Their hospital visit made the second page of the newspaper, and then others picked up the story. Tommy’s cheque made the headline and Charlotte in the consumption ward made the photograph. They attended Saint Michael’s. They attracted interest. They were invited to the Ellesmeres’ for dinner. Tommy had been putting it off. So far, it had been easy to compartmentalise his wife, to keep her separate from her parents and the storm that was brewing in Parliament. He worried if the lines became blurred they would merge into the same detest, and where would that leave him? 

He did not ask for prayer as he moved inside her that night. He said nothing at all beyond “Come,” and when it was done he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. Charlotte curled on her side and pressed her lips to her rosary. Tommy wondered if he ought to take whores again after all. He thought he might stop this, all of it. What was the point? 

“Do you hate me?” he asked into the dark, so flatly it might have been an accounting question. His voice betrayed no insecurity. Only a business matter that ought to be addressed, ought to be compiled in a report and used in future decision-making. 

Charlotte hesitated long enough before answering. “No.” 

Tommy waited for the words, Not yet, but they did not come. 

He lit a cigarette he didn’t want. “Might be that you’re a fool.” 

“Might be.” Her voice was steady for the first time since he’d known it. “Or it might be that I’m faithful.” 

“Faithful to who?” She did not answer. He exhaled smoke. “Your parents are having dinner tomorrow. A lot of important people will be there.”

“Alright.”

“That includes us.”

“Alright.” 

“You’ll wear white.” 

“If you wish.” 

“If I wish,” he echoed, more tired than he was amused. 

His cigarette finished and he turned out the lamp, noting that it might have been the most they’d said to each other, if not in words. 

Charlotte paced through the house the next morning, having been unable to stomach breakfast and now feeling ravenous. She hoped to duck into the kitchen and find some muesli, but the sound of hushed maid voices stopped her before she entered, accompanied by the scrubbing of a hard-bristled brush across iron. 

“...too bloody proud, if you ask me. Thinks she's above us all.” 

“How long do you give her?” 

“A month? Six?” 

“Generous.” 

They laughed and it sounded unkind. Charlotte took a step backward, but the name caught her attention. 

“Poor Lizzie. After all those years…”

“She’ll do alright for herself.” 

“In money, she might. Do you think that’s why the new one’s here?” 

“Got money of her own, the way I heard it.” 

“Don’t know why he didn’t stick to whores.” 

“A man like that needs a wife. Needs to look like a family man, doesn't he?”

“Wait ‘til the first man with a gun arrives. She’ll fly away faster than we can say, I knew it.” 

The maid snorted. “Knickers on display, and all.” 

A woman cleared her throat, jolting Charlotte out of eavesdropping. It was Frances, the housekeeper. Charlotte’s face immediately flushed, all the way to the roots of her hair. She shouldn’t have lingered and listened. It was a bad thing to do. 

“Is everything alright, Ma’am?” Frances asked. 

Charlotte gave a quick nod. “Yes. I was… I was just visiting the kitchen.”

Frances paused and watched her for a moment. How much had she heard? Charlotte felt rather like a child all over again. Something about Frances reminded her of a tutor or governess. She waited to be chastised and told off. 

But Frances surprised her. “I might remind you that you are the mistress of this house, Ma’am.”

Charlotte gave a quick nod, out of relief, before the words had truly sunk in. “I suppose I am.” 

“You have authority over the staff.” 

Charlotte stammered. “I do not wish to have authority over anyone.” 

“While Mr Shelby controls the finances,” Frances continued, “The previous Mrs Shelbys have overseen the accounts. Grocery orders. Wages. Linen. Menus.” 

“Menus,” Charlotte repeated. 

Frances gave a firm nod. “The cook has been awaiting your instruction. We did not know which meals you would prefer.” 

“The food is fine,” Charlotte said quickly. “Only… Perhaps a sandwich or something similar. At lunchtime. Something small.” Were she a fussy woman, she might have asked for a lighter breakfast or a more interesting supper, but she had not been fussy a day in her life and didn’t wish to start now. 

Frances waited expectantly. When no further instruction came, she said, “Very well. I'll have menus sent tomorrow. If there is anything you need, please let me know. It is good to have a woman in the house again.” Her lips pursed, as though questioning how much more to say. “Good for Mr Shelby. I hope it will be good for you, too.” 

Charlotte cast a glance in the direction of the kitchen. The maids had quieted—likely scarpered—as soon as Frances spoke, but Charlotte’s stomach was still grumbling. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful or insulting by rifling around for more food, and so she bid Frances goodbye, and headed out into the grounds, hoping she might stumble upon a blackberry bush or apple tree instead. 

Whoever tended the gardens was disappointingly thorough. The bramble bushes had been sheared right back to nothing. There were no apples, and the only fruiting trees were freshly-planted and out of season. Charlotte made do with a few mint leaves that were threatening to take over the herb garden, and the sky was bleaker than usual with the first droplets of rain threatening to fall. She felt utterly miserable. She missed her friends from the parish, she missed the daily mass. She missed her Lord. He was the closest friend of all, and try as she might, she could not help but feel completely abandoned. Left to the mercy of a man she did not know and his ghosts and his big house. She did not want to be a mistress. She wanted to be a nun. She ought to know better than to allow the bitterness that was rising within her, the scathing thoughts towards her parents and Father Raymond and Thomas and even Jesus Himself. It all felt like a farce. She sat in the rain and it all felt like a farce and she ripped up blades of grass into her fingers and allowed herself to throw a sulk. What had her faith gained her? Why were the evil men and women of the world living perfectly complacent lives while she wallowed in misery? Where was her God now? 

She sniffed and wiped the tears and began to repent almost immediately. Such thoughts were normal. Inescapable, even. She had spoken to Father Raymond on many occasions, often after a reconciliation, or during a particularly trying time. He reassured her that she was only human, and all humans had their moments of doubt or searching, even priests. She did not know if it made her feel better. Only that she wished to attend her home parish again this weekend, and she would have to raise the matter with Thomas and hope he agreed. He preferred Saint Michael’s, she assumed, because it was bigger and had more influential people in attendance. He was an interesting dichotomy, her husband. Every decision seemed to revolve around courting public opinion, and yet he seemed to hold such utter contempt for it. 

That evening was no exception. Tommy dressed in one of his finer suits while Charlotte lingered in the room behind him, hesitantly pinning strands of hair into place and frowning at her reflection in the mirror. He ought to have a maid come and help her. The public engagements wouldn’t be letting off anytime soon, and she seemed to flail in the face of evening gowns and jewels. Only the one golden cross at her neck. The wedding ring marking her finger. She’d put in earrings for this evening, small pearls that jittered when she moved her head, but not a swipe of makeup across her face. Tommy couldn’t imagine her with lipstick or waved hair or fur coats. He decided not to call the maid. 

They did not speak in the car, nor as they entered the house. He wondered if Charlotte would relax or become more tense, back at her old home, but she did not seem to react either way. She appeared deep in thought. A little pale. The same could be said for Tommy. He didn’t know what to expect tonight. Only that it felt like jumping on horseback into a pond full of sharks, and despite everything, he was almost glad to have Charlotte at his side. She knew this world and these people and yet she was not one of them. An anchor in a writhing ocean of fascism. A much more subdued one than Ada. 

Mrs Ellesmere fussed with her daughter’s gown for what might have been a lifetime. Fussed with her gown, her hair, the way she held herself. She asked endless questions about Arrow House and married life, and the fire in the grand dining room had been overfilled with logs so the air became a thick wall of heat, and Montague shook Tommy’s hand and offered him a drink and he felt untethered in a way that was entirely foreign. Unsure of his purpose. Unable to remember why tonight had been so important. Unable to care much about anything at all. 

It did little to improve his mood when he saw they’d been placed next to the two people he’d like to sit beside the least. Mrs Ellesmere’s eyes glinted from across the room as though it had been deliberate. Of course it had. 

“Uncle Oswald,” Charlotte greeted quietly, placing a kiss on the man’s cheek and forcing a smile. “Aunt Diana.” 

She had been told to call them such since she was a young child. The words now tasted strange in her mouth. She’d never before made much in the way of conversation with either of the pair. They were friends of her parents. It felt strange. 

“Oh, none of that tonight, darling,” Diana said with a small smile as Thomas pulled out Charlotte's chair and they took their seats. “You are a grown woman now, look at you. A wife.” She fixed her gaze on Thomas. “And a Shelby wife, at that.” 

“Tom,” Oswald said in greeting. There was a flash in his eyes, one that had always sent shivers across Charlotte’s spine. The word devilish came to mind, though it was an unfair thought to have. “Things certainly have changed. How did you convince the little dove to leave her convent dreams behind?” 

Charlotte’s cheeks flushed red. Diana leaned in. “Don’t blush so, dear,” she said. “There’s really no need. How do you find marriage? Is it everything you expected?” 

“It is wonderful,” Charlotte said, because that is what a new wife says. 

“Even for a nun?” Oswald asked, and Charlotte got the sense he was teasing. 

“Charlotte’s not a nun,” Thomas said curtly. “Though she prays enough for three of them.”

Her cheeks flushed again, though not so unpleasantly this time. Her eyes locked with his for barely a moment. It was like a private joke they were sharing. But she wasn’t used to being so central in conversation and certainly hadn’t prepared for it. Not here, where she assumed the focus would be on work matters and politics. 

But sure enough, they quickly swept onto such topics of conversation, and Charlotte was afforded a little relief. Tommy held himself stiffly, and though he kept waiting for Mosley to strike, the man seemed to be behaving. For now. The reason why became soon clear as Mosley began talking at great length about the restructuring of his party, all the men from both the conservative and labour parties who had joined, how Tommy really ought to consider the matter. 

“I’m not working tonight,” he said flatly, as everyone began on the first course. “Set up a meeting and send over some information. We’ll discuss it another time.” 

Both Mosley and Diana were quiet for a moment, before the latter gave a silly little laugh, her eyes positively snakelike. “You’ve not had a problem mixing business with pleasure before,” she said, in such a low purr that Charlotte turned very, very still. 

Tommy’s fork paused over his food. “Careful, Diana.” 

“Don’t pout,” she chastised. “It’s hardly a scandal. A bit of fun on the canal, wasn’t it?” She sipped from her drink, then waved a hand at Charlotte, who was staring fixedly at her plate. “Before you were married, dove, of course. Long before. Such things hardly matter to men like Tommy.” 

“Do forgive her,” Oswald muttered into Tommy’s ear with a chuckle. “All in the past, is it not?” 

“Oh, you are such a pretty little thing,” Diana simpered after a moment, aware now that Charlotte had not reacted at all. “So sweet.” 

For a moment, there was only silence between them, though the rest of the table continued to chatter, entirely oblivious. A fierce surge of protectiveness came over Tommy. For all they called her a dove, Charlotte looked like a broken bird. Flown into the orangery glass and now trying desperately to recover on the stone tiles, barely able to draw a breath. He needed no extra reason to detest the people at his side, and yet they had given him one. For all his recent restraint, for all his bloody principles to keep his marriage intact, Diana Mitford had unravelled it like thread. A different man might have taken Mosley outside to blows for it. Tommy remembered the time, a simpler time, when matters could be resolved easily with guns or fists. How very working-class of him. 

But Charlotte lifted her head, face hardened to stone, and she surprised him. 

Her voice firm and steady, she said, “I will pray for you, Lady Diana.” A moment later, she rose from her seat and left the table. 

Diana’s surprise lasted only a moment before she laughed. “Oh, please do. I could use it.” 

In another life, Tommy might have found a way to wipe the smirk clean from her face. He’d met plenty of people he disliked. She might be the worst. If he were the sort of man who gave into anger and impulse, she’d have been floating in that canal rather than fucked over it. But he couldn’t afford such measures. He couldn’t ever lose control. 

“Mosley,” was all he said in farewell, before leaving the table and following his wife. 

The call reached him from halfway across the room. “I’ll see you in parliament, Mr Shelby.” 

Charlotte’s gloved hands were folded neatly in her lap as they drove home. Not a word had passed between them. She stared out at the hedgerows, black smears against headlights in the night. Tommy could not see if her eyes were glassy. He weighed up words, but it was no use. He wouldn’t insult her intelligence by pretending no words had been spoken, or that they hadn’t meant what they did. Part of him justified the matter easily. He had a past. Charlotte was well aware of that, or ought to have been, before marrying him. Of all the wrong he’d done in his life, Diana Mitford was barely worth mentioning. It was hardly a conquest he felt proud of. If anything, it was a shameful wound. A weakness. Blackmail. Festering under his skin until it would need amputating. 

But the silence was worse than Lizzie’s shouting had ever been. Lizzie cried, threw things at him, threatened to leave. Anger, he could handle. It was predictable. Human. Silence was the absence of anything at all, and the only thing worse was when Charlotte finally spoke. 

Tommy parked the car. Switched off the engine. He’d been just about to get out when her voice filled the space between them. 

“Is it true?” 

He waited a moment before saying, “It doesn’t matter.” 

Charlotte knew she couldn’t begrudge him a past. She’d been warned, after all. He was troubled. He had a black heart. He needed God and he needed redemption. It was one thing to hear about it and another to be faced with it, especially when that face was Aunt Diana. 

And then, like pouring salt onto a cut, Tommy’s voice cut through the air inside the car. “I shouldn’t have married you, Charlotte.” 

Her gaze snapped to him. He lit a cigarette. He looked weary. 

“I’m not in my right mind,” he continued. “I haven’t been for a long time.” 

She swallowed his words. “Because of your daughter?” she asked in a hushed whisper. 

Tommy ran a hand over his face. Though he’d barely drank, he looked wretched. 

“Go inside,” he told her. 

Her hand hovered over the door. She asked, “Will you come to me tonight?” 

He said, “No,” and waited for the door to snap shut behind her, and waited for the ash on his cigarette to burn all the way down before starting the engine again and driving away.

Chapter Text

Charlotte was miserable, and then her mother called in to visit. 

Just as promised, Frances had sent menus to Charlotte for selection, and now a visitor’s lunch had been prepared with thick slices of honeyed ham wedged into buttered rolls, cheese and pickle sandwiches sliced into squares, lemon curd biscuits with powdered sugar on top, and dollops of jam and cream across fluffy scones. It was as though the kitchen had been ordered to feed half a dozen people, not only two. Charlotte was just weighing up whether she could save some for later or if the servants would end up eating it all, when she reached for a scone and her mother slapped her hand away. 

“Charlotte,” she chastised, “Do not be a pig.” 

She withdrew her hand. Silence hovered between them for a moment, and Charlotte found she could no longer stomach even her tea. 

Her mother sipped, glancing around the room. “It’s a nice enough house,” she said. “When will you start hosting?” 

“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied quietly, pressing a napkin to her lips. “Thomas is often away working.” 

“I do not suppose it matters,” her mother said breezily. “You’ll need some instruction on manners before holding dinners, anyway.” 

“Manners?” 

“I heard how horribly you treated Aunt Diana.” Her mother’s eyes flickered to her own. “And you left early without any explanation. It was quite embarrassing.” 

With little else to do and little other reason to look away from her mother’s intense stare, Charlotte took the teacup in her hands. “I did not wish to embarrass anyone.” 

“Least of all your husband,” her mother said. “We promised him a wife who would behave, not one who would cause a scene.” 

“Thomas…” It was no use. Her voice trailed off. Is that why he’d expressed such regret for their marriage in the car? Is that why she’d not seen him since? Charlotte suddenly felt ill. 

Her mother leaned back in triumph. “You will apologise to Lady Diana,” she said. “And you will not behave in such a way again.” 

“Lady Diana said something hurtful,” Charlotte began, but she was quickly cut off. 

“I am aware of what she said. And how kind of her to be so honest with you so soon. Most women would not have done so, but kept it a hidden secret. She was more than decent, given the circumstances.” Mrs Ellesmere shook her head slowly. “What has happened to you, little dove? You know this is not how to behave. You know it is not what God wants.” 

Charlotte drew in a breath. She had no choice but to agree. “I know.” 

“Are you forgetting yourself? Was it ever really about Him, or your own pride in joining the convent?” 

“Of course it was about Him,” Charlotte whispered, each word stinging like being lashed with barbed wire. 

But Mrs Ellesmere shook her head again. “I do not know if I believe you, little dove.” She paused. “You will attend reconciliation with Father Raymond. He will provide you with some guidance.” 

“I think Thomas prefers Saint Michael’s,” Charlotte said quietly. 

“Then you will attend outside of Sunday hours.” 

Charlotte still had no way of getting to her home parish, not unless Thomas was willing to drive her and she was nervous to ask such a favour. But she did not wish to say so aloud. “Alright.” 

“Your brothers will be home for Christmas this year,” Mrs Ellesmere said, breezing on in conversation as though nothing had transpired. “We are doing the usual feast and hunt, so do save the date.” 

Charlotte could think of nothing more dreadful. The mere thought of it turned her stomach to curd, and all the food sat untouched, and she endured her way through another hour of conversation before her mother finally left and she could breathe again. The house was cold. Empty. Silent. Charlotte glanced around and weighed up her options before resigning herself. Her feet tapped up the staircase and she climbed into bed, fully clothed, burrowing beneath the thick layers of cotton and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. 

Tommy asked Winston Churchill, “How is your health?” 

He sat across from the man in a dimly lit office, cigarette in hand as a cigar was between the elder man’s teeth. All the smoke filled the room, obscuring the titles of the books lining the case along the back wall. It was a shame. Tommy liked to read, and ordinarily would have been scanning the titles, looking for any that seemed to be of interest. 

Winston waved a large hand. “Fine. Absolutely fine. All a lot of to-do about nothing, in the end.” 

Tommy cleared his throat. “In that case, I hope you won’t mind if I cut to the quick and ask why I’m here.” 

He waited. Smoking. Holding eye contact. Answer already firm on his tongue that he was done doing Churchill’s bidding. Whatever spying, or assassination, or information he needed, the man would have to learn to live with disappointment. Tommy had nothing left to lose. Nothing worth blackmail. If he was thrown in prison he’d live in prison and if he was killed he’d finally be put out of his misery. 

But to his surprise, Churchill did not ask him anything of the sort. 

Instead he said, “I’m hoping you’ll consider joining the Conservative party.” 

Tommy exhaled harshly. So many party invitations, he’d have to don a ballgown. “I’m happy where I am.” 

“You have done well,” Churchill conceded. “And your values are aligned with Labour. For now. As mine were… For a time. Young men can afford to be principled. Their hearts beat with a unique vigour. They have the oxen strength to force change, to bend policy to their will.” He smiled without teeth. “But we are no longer young men. Are we?” 

Tommy did not respond. He smoked. He had the sense Churchill had more to say, and so he waited. 

“As man grows older and loses all such strength and vigour, he has two options before him. He can become doddery. Or he can become cunning. Power is where power lies, and right now, that is with the Conservatives. All power and no sense. Which is why they need men like me. And men like you,” he added. 

Tommy finally spoke. “You know my beginnings, Mr Churchill.” 

“And I know your end. If you stay where you are, it will be a rather depressing and bleak one. Yes, you may retain your constituency, at least for now. At the election, you’ll lose even that. You’ll be lucky to have a position as a shadow. A decade the Conservatives will hold office, I predict, if not longer. You’ll have retirement on your mind before you can even start your career in office.” Churchill puffed on his cigar for a moment. “My Conservative government—yes, mine, do not look so surprised—will not be pompous lords debating over Indian exports. We will be smothering fascism itself. I trust you are familiar with the situation in Germany?” 

It was difficult not to be. Churchill spoke of little else, at least in the papers. The menace of Adolf Hitler’s regime, the warnings to the United Kingdom, the dangers of Nazis, particularly when militarised. Some held stock in what he spoke. Others laughed him down. The likes of Oswald Mosley thought he’d lost his touch and his mind along with it. 

“This is growing larger than two parties in Britain,” Churchill said quietly. “Mark my words. This will grow larger still, and the threat of fascism will not be contained only overseas. It is already growing here.” His chest puffed slightly. “And I simply love Britain too dearly to let her fall under such circumstances. Now. Tell me, dear boy, if you wish to continue debating the price of coal in union meetings, then continue as you are. Or you could use your talent in government, where the real decisions are made. Holding a portfolio. The Board of Trade, perhaps.” 

Tommy extinguished his cigarette. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr Churchill, but even you don’t have that sort of power.” 

“Not today.” His lips twitched into a smile. “But perhaps tomorrow. You’re a bookmaker, Mr Shelby. What odds would you give?” 

Tommy blinked slowly, the dim light reflecting from his eyes. It was not a prospect he wanted to reject. At least, not too quickly. It was never a bad idea to keep his options open where Churchill’s concerned. 

But neither was he willing to jump ship so easily. Not on a whim. Not on promises conjured out of fairy dust. 

Even so, Churchill had done something very dangerous. He had planted an idea in Tommy’s mind. An earwig that would burrow in there, nesting deeper and deeper in his brain. It made too much sense. That was the problem. The man made too much bloody sense, and he had a way of convincing people that left little room for doubt. That much was his gift. What would be Tommy’s? 

Tommy said, “I’ll consider it.” 

Churchill seemed satisfied with that for now. “Make sure you do.” 

He turned it over the entire way back to Arrow House. He drove without thinking. He’d been intending to stay in London on business a few days longer, but the dinner and the conversation with Charlotte suddenly seemed so far away. So long ago. 

And yet, it was more immediate than ever. Mosley was at risk of gaining real power, and his witch of a mistress with him. Churchill was right about that much. Fascism was becoming a threat. If the conservative party was the only one powerful enough to quell it, Tommy would be wise to take advantage of that. 

His mind was still churning it all over as he stepped into the house. Outside, the sky had turned dark. What time was it? Too late. 

His children’s feet pattered through the hallway. Ghosts. Ruby smiled widely and launched herself into his arms. Charlie was more shy, but not far behind her. Lizzie rolled her eyes and scolded Tommy that she’d never get them to sleep now, and Frances dutifully led them back to their rooms, and when Tommy blinked, they were all gone. Lamps. There used to be so many lamps lit in the house. Now, it was always dark. 

His throat burned for a drink, and every step closer brought Tommy relief. All that sobriety fucking wasted, all that control conceded. He wasn’t in his right mind tonight. He was never in his right bloody mind, not anymore, and he wanted a drink, wanted it like a balm to a cut. It was alright. Charlotte would be there. Charlotte would absolve him. If anything could be absolved, she would absolve him. He didn’t want to be absolved. The very thought filled him with disgust. But he would be.  

Sure enough, his saintly wife was perfectly presented. Sitting upright in bed, soft hair tied back in a ribbon, some godly book in her hands she was reading by lamplight. He paused outside the open door. Not wanting to disturb her, not yet. Not wanting to break her concentration. It ought to have been like this from the start. He ought to have walked away and left her as she was. He could justify it to himself a hundred different ways. The Ellesmeres would have married her off regardless, to another man, a crueller man. Self-preservation drove his steps into the room. He still needed her. Whatever decision he made politically, he needed her. His life was theatre and she made the theatre look like church. But he’d never had a taste for cruelty. He’d never beaten his horses, and something about her made him think of beaten horses.

Her eyes snapped to his when he entered. They were wide. So very wide. He’d had his time with pretty women and marriage, and this was different. She would further his career. Churchill would further his career. What was one without the other? 

Charlotte lowered her eyes. Her husband walked slowly across the room and her breathing grew quicker as he approached, but he only poured himself a drink. One maid or another ensured the decanter was always topped up with dark liquor. It was a pity. Charlotte would have liked to tip it all down the sink. 

“You’re home,” she said quietly. 

“I am.” 

He drank. He began to undress. Charlotte stared fixedly at her book. She was familiar by now with the sounds, the order of things. They triggered a response in her she couldn’t yet understand. It felt like fear, but she was not afraid. 

But he did not join her. He sat on the edge of the bed in his loose shirt and linen underwear and he lit a cigarette and continued to drink. 

Charlotte placed her book down, brow furrowing. “You’re troubled.” 

He sighed. It wasn’t unkindly. “Is that the word for it?” 

“What has happened?” 

Tommy asked, “How seriously do you take our marriage vows?” 

Quietly she replied, “I would never break them.” 

He seemed to think this over. Finally, he said, “I met with Winston Churchill. He wants me to join the Conservatives.” 

Charlotte digested this. She knew little of politics, or as little as one could in her situation. It was so ever-present growing up that it had become white noise. Easily ignored. Of little interest. But even she knew about the divide, and where the rough lines lay. She knew her husband was not a Conservative. Not in heart, not in practice. “What did you tell him?” 

“I said I would think about it.” Thomas’ cigarette burnt out, and so he placed it in the ashtray. “He believes it is the only way to fight fascism. He believes he’ll soon be Prime Minister.” 

“And what do you think?” 

“I don’t know.” Thomas held his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to bloody think. That’s the problem.” 

Charlotte leaned forward. “You don’t have to decide right now.” 

“Yes I bloody do, or my mind won’t find rest, and I’ll end up putting a gun to my head to make it all stop.” 

He didn’t mean the words. Surely he didn’t mean them. They were only the drunk words of an exhausted man, more hyperbole than fact. But still, Charlotte began to pray silently, fervently. It startled her. 

She ought to place a hand on his arm, or rest her head against his back, or perform any other wifely gesture of care. Instead, she sat beside him on the edge of the bed, tucking her knees to her chest. “If I am struggling with a decision,” she said quietly, “and I am waiting on an answered prayer, I make a list of the pros and cons.” 

“Pros and cons,” he repeated, the words sounding different from his lips.

Charlotte nodded. “What would be the positives of accepting?” 

Tommy’s eyebrows raised. There was something so simple and innocent about the exercise. It almost seemed futile. But he humoured her. If Churchill was right, Tommy would be on the right side of history. He’d gain power. A prominent position in parliament. A spring-loaded launch onto the trajectory of a new career. 

“And the negatives?” 

He risked backlash. He’d be betraying his principles. Neither held much weight. Both were frequent occurrences in his life already. Tommy lit another cigarette. 

“And if you don’t accept… The positives?” 

Tommy thought long and hard but found he could not answer. The negatives of not accepting were that he’d miss the opportunity. Churchill’s earlier words ran rampant through his head. He had around twenty years until retirement. Would he spend them all in South Birmingham debating the prices of coal? 

“I’d be away more,” he said quietly. “Working. It’s a lot to ask of a wife.” 

“You’re gone all day already,” Charlotte said in a quiet voice. “Half the nights, too.” 

She could not have predicted her husband’s next words. “You ought to have children,” he said. “Keep you busy.” 

She waited a moment in surprise before speaking. “Do you want more children?” she asked. “After… After what happened?” 

His eyes were cold. “Makes no difference to me either way.” 

Feeling rather brave, Charlotte pointed out, “You said you regret our marriage.” 

“Can’t be undone now.” Tommy stubbed out his cigarette. “If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Polly. A boy, he’ll be John.” 

Charlotte thought that after such a conversation, the night would follow as it usually did. But Thomas did not touch her. He lay back, and he exhaled, and he closed his eyes and he looked ten years younger. Charlotte longed to touch him. To run a hand through his hair, or caress his face. To see if he was still real, like this. But his words of regret stung at her ears and she found she could not. It was as though even the conversation about a child had been no more than a hallucination, on either his part or hers. 

Her stomach clenched painfully as she lay on her side and curled up, reaching for her rosary to hold as she prayed. She would pray for Thomas. She would pray harder. She would pray not to embarrass him again as she had before. Her stomach clenched again, and she’d rescinded the menus after lunch with her mother, saying she did not need them after all. Dinner had been meat on a Friday and so she could not eat it, but nor could she bear to raise a fuss with the servants, and so she’d picked at the cherry tomatoes and now felt quite sick. If it was a test from God she did not wish to fail. She pushed it from her mind and began to pray, and she was not touched all that night, or the next, or the next. For all his marital regret, despite his drunken musings of children, Thomas did not touch her at all. 

Chapter Text

The small, bespectacled man hightailed it quickly behind Tommy as he left the office. “Mr Shelby,” he was calling, whippet-thin legs making remarkably quick progress over ground. “Mr Shelby…” 

It was Charlotte who frowned, slowed, and began to turn. Tommy kept his hand firm at the small of her back, but it was no use. The man had reached them. He’d need to have words with his wife later. Tommy did not stop when leaving his political office. Not for anyone, not on a Friday, and especially not when he was on the brink of switching political parties and the information could be leaked at any moment for comment. Would Churchill stoop so low? Tommy wouldn’t put it past him. He was too like himself, when it came to business. 

“Mr Shelby,” the man panted, having finally caught up. “Matthew Gillhall. I’m from the London Times.” 

Tommy replied emotionlessly, still moving. “No comment.” 

“I’m profiling several MPs for a new series,” Matthew continued, briefcase swinging in hand as he kept apace. “And rather hoping you will be one of them.” 

“I’m a busy man,” Tommy said bluntly. He moved Charlotte through the door and onto the pavement outside. His car was only a few yards away. 

“I already have several sources,” Matthew continued, jogging beside them. “The profile could go at any moment. But I wished to interview you personally. I don’t mind traveling further north. At your home office, perhaps?”

It couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time. A few weeks prior, it would have been an opportunity for image rehabilitation. A few later, a tidy piece on his crossing the floor of parliament. But Tommy couldn’t risk an interview now. Not when he’d have to either betray his changed allegiances prematurely, in print, or lie through his teeth only for it to come out later. 

He opened the car door for Charlotte. She was a vision in cream, with a new coat he had bought her with matching gloves and a small bag on her arm. The only wife he’d ever had—or woman he’d ever known, for that matter—who had frowned at her new gifts and then told him she couldn’t accept them. 

“I have a perfectly good coat,” she’d protested. 

Tommy watched her for a long moment, trying to decipher the discomfort across her face. “It’s the colour,” he finally decided. “I’ll get you another in blue.” 

“No!” she’d said, almost on the verge of tears. 

It had taken a while to drag the truth out of her. That amassing possessions frightened her because it felt too much like hoarding wealth and greed. And why should she need such a fine coat when so many in the world were shivering, and would have gladly accepted a blanket of paper if they could afford it?

“You don’t understand,” she’d sniffled before babbling at great length about her time spent in the slums of India and the Southern Americas, and how lightly she would be living in a convent, and something about a camel and a needle from the gospels. 

Tommy had listened, bewildered and bemused at first, before allowing her words to settle in. He lit a cigarette and decided it shocked him because Charlotte had come from money. She’d not grown up around babies starving to death two houses away, as he had, or needing to forfeit eating for the day so there’d be enough for Finn and Ada. But then, such experiences had only made him hungrier for wealth. It dawned on him that while Charlotte had never had to fear for her own survival, it only left more room to fear for the rest of the world. Again, it bemused and bewildered him, and he thought of broken horses and the way they needed a firm hand. 

“A business expense,” he told her, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “You are my wife, and we will be photographed together. I need to be seen taking care of you. Providing for you. I won’t be any good in parliament if people believe I’d let my own wife live destitute.” 

He didn’t trust the words had sunk in at the time. But here she was today wearing the coat and everything that matched, not a smudge on her skin or a hair out of place. Cleaner than a bar of soap. It was worth the sum he’d donated to an organisation in India, matching the cost of the clothes. Not that he’d told her. Something about her knowing made him feel uncomfortable, like being walked in on while taking a bath.

“It would be a high profile piece,” Matthew continued, while Tommy closed the door safely behind Charlotte and exhaled loudly. It would do no good to piss off a journalist. But neither would it do any good to make bed with one. 

“I’ll have my assistant get back to you,” was all he said, deciding a pissed off Ada would be easier to handle than a writer from the Times. Unless she discovered he’d referred to her as his assistant, in which case he’d be better braving the interview. 

But it seemed to satisfy Matthew for now, though he was still calling out as Tommy slipped into the car, started the engine, and pulled away. 

“You spoke well today,” Charlotte finally said, as they pulled onto the main road. 

“Hadn’t realised you were watching.” 

“Listening.” 

The other wives were well practiced in it, Charlotte had learned, able to decipher entire speeches from the muffled words that leaked through heavy doors. They seemed kind, too, greeting her and asking polite questions about how she was settling into her new marriage. It was strange that only a few months ago, their husbands were topics of derision around her parents’ dinner table. Stranger still that she could not afford to make friends, not when Thomas would soon be leaving the party. 

“The journalist was persistent.” 

Charlotte smoothed her skirt over her lap as she waited for a response. She was growing bolder in conversation with her husband. As though testing where his boundaries lay so she could better obey them. He did not mind if she spoke twice, but nor would it prompt him to respond with any great enthusiasm, or even sometimes to respond at all. If he was choosing to be quiet, he would be quiet, and Charlotte would occupy her thoughts with prayer. A woman called Margaret had mentioned that morning that her son was ill with croup, and there was another wife absent who Charlotte was told had recently been widowed. She kept a running mental list of people who needed prayer. Were she closer with the women, she might have baked them a meal or dropped in to help. She missed filling her days with things like that. Arrow House could get very lonely. 

“It’s the wrong time,” Thomas said. 

Charlotte nodded. “I understand.” 

She had more to say, but bit her tongue, as a good wife should. 

Thomas often made it very difficult for her to be a good wife. 

He turned to her as he drove, and after a moment said, “You think I ought to do it.” 

“No,” she said quietly. “It’s a risk. But it sounds as though he’s going to write the piece anyway. If he interviews you, you’ll at least get a sense of what he’s going to say, and you can prepare for it.”

“I don’t need backlash.”

Charlotte said, “In that case, you’re in the wrong profession.”

He did not speak again on the matter, and neither did she. When they arrived home at Arrow House, there was an automobile already there, and at first Charlotte worried they had visitors. But she did not recognise the women lifting neat cases out of the boot, and they did not wait for her and Thomas, but followed Frances inside. 

“Guests?” she asked hesitantly. 

Thomas lit a cigarette. “The new maids.” 

Charlotte went very quiet. Tommy did not press the matter. Frances had told him what the last maids said, the way they’d forgotten themselves and become prone to gossiping, growing bolder and bolder. He wouldn’t tolerate it in his house. He pushed it from his mind and went indoors, and the next day he called Matthew Gillhall to set up an interview.

***

A small knock came at the door to the orangery, then Frances poked her head insider. “Mr Shelby has called for you, Ma’am.”

Charlotte blinked in surprise, glancing up from her needlework. “Is the interview already over?” 

“No, Ma’am. He wants you present.” 

Charlotte hesitated for only a moment before packing up. She moved quietly through the house and tapped nervously on the office door before entering. Thomas was smoking behind his desk. The journalist was sitting cross-legged, notebook in hand. 

“Mrs Shelby,” Matthew greeted her, standing as she entered. “Pleasure to meet you again.” 

“And you,” she said kindly, then glanced at her husband. 

“Take a seat,” he said. “As around a dozen of Mr Gillhall’s questions pertain to you and our marriage, I thought you’d best speak for yourself.” 

Charlotte blanched. Thomas had the journalist send through a list of questions beforehand. It was one of his conditions of doing the interview. She hadn’t realised she’d been included in them at all.

“How did the two of you meet?” Matthew asked. 

Tommy’s gaze flickered to his wife before he answered. When she hid her hands in her lap like that, he knew they were shaking. “Through Charlotte’s parents,” he said. “I was invited for dinner.” None of his words were a lie. 

Matthew asked, “Conservative party members?”

Tommy did not answer verbally but gave a slight nod as he held his cigarette. 

Matthew fixed his attention on Charlotte, directing his next question at her. “And how soon afterwards were you married?”

“That question’s not on the list,” Tommy said.

“Just trying to get a scope,” Matthew countered.

Trying to get scope turned out to be his way of asking the questions he really wanted. He used each approved question like a Trojan horse, smuggling in the next and the next, growing bolder until Tommy shut him down each time. Charlotte managed a few of her own, graciously sweeping aside the mentions of her ambitions to become a nun without further comment. But then Matthew grew bolder, and Tommy remembered just why he hated working with journalists.

“Are you prepared for the upcoming vote on capital punishment?” Matthew asked. 

Tommy knew the question would be coming. He’d prepared an answer. “It’s an important topic,” he said, “and one that deserves to be debated thoroughly.”

Matthew paused. “And have your views on the matter been shaped by personal experience?”

“That’s not on the list,” Tommy said flatly, tapping out his cigarette.

“Experience such as the hangings of almost your entire family,” Matthew continued, flipping pages of his notebook, “booked for execution in nineteen-twenty-four. Narrowly missed due to a last-minute release from imprisonment.”

Charlotte glanced at him. Silence hung thick in the room, coating the back of her neck. She instinctively clutched for her rosary but she had left it behind, and had to make do with her fingers scrabbling through her pockets. 

Thomas did not speak. He only fixed Matthew with his gaze, and it was enough that even Charlotte squirmed in response. The journalist seemed unperturbed. Charlotte supposed he was used to such heavy silences. She was not. 

Nor was she used to the pit that formed in her stomach and lingered long after Matthew had left, only cold words having passed between the men for the remainder of the interview. This was her fault. She’d encouraged Thomas to do it. If his political career was now ruined, she’d be to blame. Rather than helping him, she seemed to be causing him nothing but trouble and embarrassment. First the dinner with Lady Diana, now this. 

As if that weren’t bad enough, she was becoming distracted from her prayer in the evenings. If Thomas was not already in the room, she found herself on high alert for his footsteps, only half-aware of the rosary mysteries as she ran through them. If he was already in bed, she was all too conscious of his presence, the smell of his cigarette, the feeling of his eyes upon her back. In either case, she couldn’t relax. 

It didn’t ease at all when lying beside him, but only became worse. Her heartbeat pulsed louder. The heat of his body warmed the sheets but left her cold. She prayed to her God, but then her mind would begin to drift, and she’d be lost in her own thoughts instead. Then she’d have to pray for forgiveness. It became so distressing, she could hardly sleep at all, and then they lay beside one another in the dark for hours at a time. Each time he shifted, she wondered if he would touch her. Her skin felt burnt and blistered at the thought.

“What’s wrong, Charlotte?” He finally asked one night.

She did not answer at first but lay wide-eyed in the dark. Barely able to believe he’d asked. Unable to give a reason in turn. 

She swallowed. “Why would anything be wrong?”

“You’re usually reciting one psalm or another at this time.”

Surprise led her to speak. “I suppose I am.”

“Too tired?”

“No. I’m having trouble sleeping,” she confessed, her words a quiet thread through the night. “I… I’m having bad thoughts.”

“How bad?”

“Sinful ones,” she whispered. 

“Heaven help us,” Thomas muttered. 

“Do not be facetious,” she said, heat burning her cheeks.

“You’re about as likely to commit murder or arson as I am to start wearing lipstick.”

“I’m not thinking of murder or arson,” Charlotte insisted, annoyance pushing her past embarrassment. “I am suffering from lustful thoughts, if you must know.”

In the silence that followed, her cheeks flushed again. She lay on her side, facing away, staring firmly at the wall. In her own mind, she began to pray. 

Her husband’s voice came quietly. “What thoughts?”

“I will not speak them.” It was bad enough to even be thinking them. 

“Thoughts between a man and wife?” He asked.

She could not respond. It mattered not that the marriage bed was sacred. It was sacred for the purpose of honouring the marriage and the love between the pair, symbolising the love Christ held for His people. There was not anything Christ-like about her thoughts. 

Thomas sighed softly. “In my experience, there’s only one way to get rid of the thoughts.” Charlotte lifted her head in curiosity. He said, “Fuck them out.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Forgive him, lord. He knows not what he is saying. He knows not what he is encouraging. He… 

He was, in fact, dragging his hand up the length of her spine, sending a shiver there that had nothing to do with cold. The edge of his jaw found her shoulder, and she released a soft gasp, one side of her aching for this and the other screaming for it to stop. But each plea caught on her tongue in a stammer and he told her to be quiet and even after she obeyed he pressed his thumb to her forehead and said, “In here.” 

But it was no use. She couldn’t be quiet anywhere, and she hated him for only a moment before realising how unfair that was, how she was looking for anyone else to blame for the sinful thoughts rolling through her head and blossoming in her flesh.

It wasn’t like their wedding night or any night since. He buried himself between her legs and her hips groaned in protest and he moved more deeply and more slowly and then he did other things that made her shake. For a long time he did such things, and the hallway clock marked every minute that passed, all of them, as Charlotte allowed it to happen. 

Thomas untangled himself when he was done and became as detached as two sheets of paper which, formerly glued shut, had been torn apart and scattered to the wind. Charlotte did not mind. It allowed her to weep silently, making sure he could neither hear or see. 

Forgive me, lord. It will not happen again. Forgive my weakness, I pray, that I might honour my marital bed with the same respect and modesty… 

It was no use. Come morning, Tommy could see the purple shadows beneath his wife’s eyes, the worsening tremble in her hands. She would not meet his gaze. He found he had little patience for it, and was prepared to spend the day in the Birmingham office until it had passed, when she made her request.

“I need to visit my home parish.” She blurted the words out as he dressed. 

He slowed, almost pausing before knotting his tie. “You don’t need my permission, Charlotte.”

She neither agreed nor denied the fact. “But I need your car.”

Suppressing a sigh, Tommy asked, “How long will you be?”

“Only an hour or so.”

He said, “Get yourself ready,” then left the room to check the papers before beginning a day’s work.

His clipped temper did not dissipate and he did not linger on his reasons for it. He’d been patient with his wife. He would continue to be patient. But it was wearing thin. Each time she crumbled over morality, over actions and events nobody else in his life would so much as blink at, Tommy reflected that it was like being married to someone who couldn’t speak a word of English. As though she hailed from a remote island and held steadfast to its customs and festivities, continuing to eat only coconuts and cocoa pods, and deciding he was the one who needed a saviour for daring to touch her. At least she kept her prayers to herself that morning. If Tommy had to endure another round of her pleading for his salvation for doing what any married man would do, he didn’t think he could bear it. He wasn’t sure if it was the implied rejection or the treating him like a bastard that stung.

***

Charlotte almost burst into tears at the sight of Father Raymond. It took everything in her not to fall to the ground before him, clutching at his vestments and descending into hysterics. It was as though a horrible, dark weight had settled over her at Arrow House and stole every breath she sucked into her lungs. Now she could breathe once more. 

“Charlotte,” Father Raymond said kindly, placing his hands on her shoulders. “We have missed you at mass.”

“I’ve been at-attending St Michael’s,” Charlotte stammered, fighting a sob. Her whole body threatened to shake. 

“How have you found the service at St Michael’s?”

“Not the same,” she said quietly. 

Father Raymond’s expression grew more concerned. “Are you in need of guidance, my child?”

“I’m in need of reconciliation.”

He digested her words for a moment before giving a small nod. “Very well.”

“Forgive me, Father,” Charlotte whispered once they were sitting in the small room, “For I have sinned. It has been five weeks since my last confession.”

She closed her eyes, not knowing where to begin.

“I fear God has left me. Abandoned me in my hour of need. My faith has been lacking and I cannot feel his presence. Now that I am wed, I… I am engaging in marital acts. They do not feel honorable… I fear I have fallen victim to lust.” Her voice wobbled. “I do not feel like myself, Father. I miss my home. I miss the parish. I miss preparing for life in the convent. And that is me fighting God’s will, is it not? I have behaved out of character. I acted inappropriately at a dinner party…” Charlotte sniffed back further tears. Words were not doing her turmoil any justice. It was the darkest chapter of her life since she was a child, and yet she could tell from the sympathetic look on Father Raymond’s face that it sounded like merely a wobble of faith.

“You chose a different path,” he said kindly. 

Something about the words bothered Charlotte. Her tears did not fall but burned in her eyes. “God chose it for me,” she said. “In my father's revelation. From the Holy Spirit.”

“Tell me more about that.”

Charlotte stared at him for a long, horrible moment. “You confirmed it,” she whispered. “Remember?”

Father Raymond looked puzzled. It took Charlotte longer than it ought to have for the first inklings of realisation to form. It took longer still before she could comprehend Father Raymond’s next words, his penance, the Hail Marys and Our Fathers she was to perform. He washed her clean of her sins and yet she’d never felt more coated in slime and filth. 

Did Thomas know? Had he been complacent in lying to her? Had he, in fact, orchestrated it? 

Charlotte felt more disgusted with herself than she had before entering the church. Disgusted not that her mother had lied to her so easily, but that she could be so easily lied to. It shattered a deep part of her. It brought up memories of a time she’d long ago sworn to forget, a time when she had been young and naive and taken advantage of just as thoroughly. Jesus wanted her to remain soft-hearted despite the hardness of the world. He thought it a strength. Charlotte was struggling to feel very strong. Never mind her heart, her stomach was too weak as memories came rushing back and mingling with everything that had transpired. 

God did not want this for her. That was why He had been silent. She had disobeyed Him, and corrupted her own life in the process.

It did not help matters that Tommy’s patience withered the longer he waited. First an hour passed, then a second, and by the third he was close to irate. He’d finished all his paperwork and had only a handful of cigarettes left in the pack, and now rain was ripping down from the sky and turning the ground a deeper shade of grey. When Charlotte finally emerged from the building it was too late to drop her back at Arrow House and still make it into the city, and the day felt thoroughly wasted. 

Tommy did not voice his frustration, only cleared his throat softly. Charlotte said nothing at all. He glanced at her and found her looking rather pale. Almost like she was all one colour. Even her hair seemed lighter and devoid of colour in the overcast light. The sage green of her dress might have been grey as the sky. 

“Better?” he finally asked, because he could not help himself.

She did not reply. Did not say anything at all. At least when Lizzie treated him like something abhorrent, he’d done enough to deserve it. He’d been practically as saintly as Charlotte as far as their marriage was concerned, yet still it was not enough. It struck him for the first time just how young she was. Just how steep the ravine was that separated them. What was he playing at? The marriage was no more than a farce for photographs and newspapers. No sense in dragging it into anything more. No, from now on he would take whores if he needed and seek advice only from men he could trust. And then maybe his wife would stop decaying at his side like a wooden plank left to moss and rot.