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notyour-valentine · 6 months

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Barbe Bleue (Tommy Shelby x Reader Angst)

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Summary: Beware, beware...

Note: This is a very much belated contribution to @zablife and her celebration. Congratulations once more - I hope you enjoy nevertheless!

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: death, violence, dead bodies - also quite literally pardon my french

Wordcount: 4565 words

She remembered everything about the day of their first meeting, the sun turning the sea to shining aquamarine, the terracotta tiles of the roof taking on the shade of a precious wine.

It had been a beautiful day in a beautiful place, warm, but not too warm for the children to play outside. There had been boys playing at soldiers, or outlaws, or even cowboys, and some girls playing a skipping game.

“Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi.”, they had sung, as the rope picked up speed, before sending one of the girls in the middle. “Première épouse, Deuxième épouse,…”

They had added to the melody of the place just like the whispering of the wind in the trees, and the waves splashing against the cliffs.

That was the day she had first met Thomas Shelby.

He was a businessman, he had said, one of many that came to these parts, yet one of few that came alone, without wives or girlfriends or mistresses. It seemed almost like he had truly been here just for business.

He had never said if this particular endeavor had been a success, but theirs had.

They had driven up to the hills, in that shiny polished car of his that he had let her drive at the end of their few days together.

Then he had invited her to London, not just said it, but paid for her travel and accommodation for the five days she was there.

During the days she had been sightseeing or shopping, with him meeting her for lunch or tea and then always in the evenings. They went to the theatre, to the opera, the ballet.

And a few months after that, they had holidayed together in Rome, eight days just him and her and la dolce vita.

By the end he had asked her to marry him - and how could she say no?

She had met many people, many men, in her time. Some were generous, some were kind, some were affectionate, some were attentive. Few were all.

Mr Thomas Shelby was one of those few.

So it was no choice at all, was it?

There was only one time where she met his family ahead of the wedding, and perhaps it was why she was so keen on memorizing all she could about them.

They were an interesting lot.

There was Mrs Gray, an aunt, who was wearing more glitter and shine than a Christmas tree, from earrings, to bracelets, necklaces and brooches.

All, she noted, the most expensive Art Deco cuts money could buy.

There was the sister, Mrs Thorne, who favoured less flashy items both in jewelry and clothes, but no less pricey. She could tell from a mile away.

There were brothers too, to go with the sister. The elder with his narrowed eyes and scarred knuckles, seemed keen to avoid her gaze.

The younger made an effort to hold her gaze, to keep his soft hands in the pockets of his tailored jacket, and his jaw muscles’ clenched.

He was a boy, she could tell, who would have taken great offence to being called that.

They were kind enough, she had to admit, but there were gazes she did not like, whispers she could not catch and words she could not place.

“She’s got some shoes to fill.”

But she knew she would be happy with Thomas, she just knew she would.

Arrow House was their home, a large country home on a sprawling piece of land. And all theirs. It had been Thomas’s for nearly a decade now, but now it would be their home, for their future.

Thrice’s the charm. That was what one of the chauffeurs had said with a shrug.

There were rules of course, as in any house. He didn’t like her in the basement, fraternising with the servants he said. What an oddly harsh way of putting it. Nor did he want her climbing to the attic. There was nothing up there and the stairs were unsafe. And who would want to have a ladder snap out from under them?

Oh and his office was to be his alone. He didn’t want her meddling in his business, not that it was of interest of her anyway, he assured her.

Not the attic, not the office, not the basement.

With all the other rooms, she could do without them, would probably never have wondered what lay behind those doors if he hadn’t made such a point of it, but it wasn’t worth starting an argument over.

There was so much else to explore!

Not just the many rooms, and the paintings on the walls, the expensive furniture, the vast library, that had predated his ownership of the house for generations, she was sure, but other fineries.

The silverware was old, she recognized quickly, but it was placed in cupboards with new china, the industrial kind, but by no means cheap. She recognised the gold rims and gold paintings on one set from a catalog a few years back, done to replicate the Fabregé style just a few years after they lost most of their customers in tragedy.

Quite…flashy.

But there was another set, also new, but in shape and colour more reminiscent of the classical style in softer colours, like the late baroque, but in the style of the European Art Deco.

Both sets seemed barely used, with even and matching numbers of plates and cups, no chips, no scratches. Two brand new sets of china just a few years apart that, apart of time and pricing, couldn’t be more different.

A few days after her discovery, she had almost forgotten it, but Frances, the housemaid asked her if, as Mistress of the House, she wanted to purchase a new set of china. “No need to squeeze another one in the cupboards.”; she told her in the lightest tone she could muster, expecting a giggle or smile at least, since she was in charge of delegating the cleaning duties and wouldn’t welcome yet another dust collector.

Instead, the woman had grown pale.

The contents of the cupboards could only occupy her for so much, especially when compared to the gardens.

There was a traditional rose garden, with stone statues. Three looked as old as the house, but two were far less tormented by time and weather, only showing the earliest of marks.

The vegetable garden was carrying well, and as the gardeners told her, but two years from their first rotation, to keep in mind if she wanted to keep the vegetable garden.

She saw no reason to remove it.

Beyond it, just beyond the walls she could see dents in the grass where supporting pillars must’ve stood once, and up until not too long ago - but long enough for grass to regrow.

When she asked the gardeners what had stood there before that, he told her he didn’t remember, but that he would help her with any changes she wished.

Thomas had told her she could reshape the garden to whatever she desired.

“I shall take my time before making any rash decisions.”, she assured the gardener as they passed the flowerbeds with the yellow roses. “It takes time for ideas to take root, just like flowers.”

“Oh aye,”; he said without the smile she had been hoping for. “If they have enough time to get to spread them.”

How curious northern humor was!

Beyond the gardens were the stables, a large, renovated facility with extra rooms for the saddles, reins, crops and boots.

She saw men’s boots of all sizes, sturdy and worn, partly even mended.

Only in a dust covered box in the corner did she find women’s boots, a white pair and a brown one.

The white leather boots were delicately worked, yet seemed highly impractical to her. The brown pair, though made from soft leather, seemed more sturdy and reliable. They were also two thumb widths longer.

Neither shoe had been worn long enough to create true creases.

Upon spotting her discovery, the stable boy told her there was a shoemaker in London who she could seek out, but she declined.

The next time she visited the stables, with Thomas, the box had disappeared. What a shame, she had liked the azure-painted wood. It had always been her favourite colour.

And the time she went to retrieve the silver candelabra, she found the shelves below void of both baroque pastels and gold shimmer.

How strange.

What remained though were the outlines in the tapestry she could spot on her way up and down the stairs. There were two, where there was almost a pale shadow behind paintings of horses, peaking out behind the frames. One shadow had almost disappeared if the morning light didn’t betray it, but another was more noticeable.

Still, she didn’t like the case of the disappearing china. It wasn’t her taste, of course, but she had quite liked the way the pale blue looked against the white of the cup.

Of course, she could have asked Frances or the maids, but she was nothing if not a self-reliant woman. Where would one put old china? The basement? The office? The attic?

Certainly not the office, she thought, giggling at her own joke, so she opted to try the attic.

Careful as not to lose balance or break through the old wood, she crept upward, only to find it truly reliable.

The attic was as all attics were, with old furniture, forgotten trinkets and a few suitcases.

She wouldn’t have spared them a second glance if she had not noticed a peaking shimmer of silver from a fray that had snuck out from its leathery prison.

Her curiosity sparked, she opened them.

Each and every one of the suitcases were filled with clothes, suitcase upon suitcase of women’s clothes from stockings and underwear, to fur-lined winter coats. As always, the sparkling evening dresses captured her attention most of all - the shimmer and shine, the beads and glittery frays.

But not all the dresses were at similar lengths, in fact, about half the dresses would be too short for her to wear, while the other half would be too long.

How strange - especially since they were both in the fashion of the last decade, after the war and the stagnation that came after, created in the rush of the new world, with wider cuts, shorter skirts and blinding shimmer and shine.

It was a true shame to leave such pieces rotting in the attic but she didn’t know who they belonged to, Mrs Grey? Some were certainly flashy enough? Mrs Throne - some perhaps.

Either way, the gowns were all so very recognisable, she wouldn’t make a fool of herself by being seen wearing another woman’s clothes.

While Thomas’s office was forbidden to her, and perhaps in exchange too, she had an office of her own, looking over the gardens, with a plush sofa, a delicate writing desk, and freshly cropped flowers brought to her each day.

Next to the sofa was a small side table with two drawers. In the first was nothing, emptied out to be filled with her heart's desire.

In the second, she found anything to avert a spontaneous catastrophe, from handkerchiefs, to needle and thread, and a little envelope holding buttons in case one came loose.

What a thrifty choice, especially since she knew that Frances and the maids had sewing supplies downstairs.

Still, any well-educated girl should be able to sew her own cuff buttons back on, and inside. She found a collection of those.

Only upon folding it again, did she see the letterhead identifying the sender. Mrs T. Shelby it read, in dark red, almost maroon lettering.

She thought nothing of it, except that her predecessor must’ve been either a very serious woman, or a very professional one. It looked almost like the kind of font used for company writing rather than a private letterhead.

She knew, of course she knew, that there had been a Mrs Shelby before her.

Thomas had told her all about that - well, not all about it, but she knew of her and that their marriage did not end on good terms.

What more did she need to know? She certainly didn’t care for much else.

The previous Mrs Shelby didn’t seem to be missed much by his family as they never spoke a hint of her, nor the staff. Besides, she was Mrs Shelby now. What should she concern herself with the previous one?

Does spring wonder how winter’s tidings fared?

Most unfortunately for her, Thomas was frequently away on business, and she soon found herself forced to find use for her time. Eventually, even she relented and began to browse the bookshelves. Most were old classics that were better known than read, and dry books of law and higher learning.

Occasionally she spotted a book of poetry, or geography or history. One book did indeed catch her interest - a book about the unfortunate wives of the increasingly unshaped Henry VIII.

She remembered a sing-song game about the man, skipping back and forth on chalk-bordered lines: “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived.”, all aiming of course for the last and most fortunate spot. As a child she had done so too. Of course now she knew that Anna of Cleeve had the greatest luck - and sense - of all of them.

Beside it was a book on yet another Queen who through no fault of her own came to miss her head, and as she pulled out the book she had selected in the hope of familiarising herself more with her new homeland, it caught in the binding and was thrown off the shelves.

As she picked it up, she noticed the folded letter paper someone had used as a bookmark between the pages.

On it was a list of names, three for boys, three for girls.

Charles - Alexander - John - Sophie - Marjorie - Jane

The names were of no concern to her, not compared to what she saw printed on top of the page.

Mrs T. Shelby.

In purple, looped writing.

Her thumb brushed over it, tracing the looped S, the hooped L, the way the letters were all strung together in a girlish way, like the first word of a fairy tale in a children’s book.

Not at all professional.

And a complete clash with maroon.

She did not mention the letter and envelope to Thomas, much like the dresses. But this time it wasn’t for lack of thought. In truth it was anything but - she thought in professional maroon writing, and breathed in looped purple lettering, the contrast, the mismatch, the utter dissonance making her temples throb.

It was the same temple Thomas caressed as he pushed hair out of her face, saying how much he would enjoy a portrait of hers to hang in his study.

It wasn’t an unreasonable request - many new paintings adorned his walls, of him and his brothers, standing, a horse, or even sitting in a group. Some included his sister and aunt, while others contained just the woman.

The only reason someone should own more than one painting of oneself is if one owned more than one house to show them in.

Her husband seemed to disagree.

In fact, he seemed very keen on it.

She could tell by the clothes the women wore and the hair they had when they had been immortalised when they had been painted.

It was more difficult with the ever-so-boring clothing choice of the men.

“Frances?”, she asked one afternoon, looking at the large family portrait in the dining room.

“Mrs Shelby?”

“Where is the painting of the previous Mrs Shelby?”, she wanted to know.

“Mrs Shelby?”, the older woman said, sounding almost frightened at her suggestion.

“I’d like to see it please.”

“Tha- there is no portrait here.”, she stammered, shifting uncomfortably.

“No?”, she asked. “Where is it?”

“Gone.”, Frances quickly said and rushed to leave.

Gone. Maybe so, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know where it was gone from, not when she so clearly saw the thin line of paler tapestry peeking out behind the painting of the horse, or the lining on top of the painting of the doe in the forest.

Two signs, two paintings.

It wouldn’t be unusual for a man who had not one but four paintings of himself in his house to have more than one of his wife.

But as she looked at the horse and the doe, she did wonder if one maybe showed a woman in purple and the other a woman in maroon.

From the window she could look out to where the gardener’s children were playing, a game of skipping rope.

It brought back the memories of that very first day, and the melody the girls had been chirping.

Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi.

The shoes disappeared, just like the china had done, and she was sure if she had told a soul of the suitcases in the attic they would suffer the same fate if they hadn’t already. The letter paper and envelope could burn, or be hidden easily, but not the outline on the walls, no matter how little of it was shown.

She knew because she passed them every single day, and every single day she would let her eyes confirm what could not be erased. Father time remained undefeated - flowers wilted, women aged, colours faded, some to light, some to dark, but they faded all the same and once the petals had dropped, once the wrinkle had formed, there was no smoothing it back out again.

But she wasn’t there yet, not quite, and she knew well how to play her part, and so she took great care in wearing the jewelry Thomas not only bought her, all his money did that, but picked them out himself.

They were neither the most exquisite nor the most tasteful of her collection, but wearing it was what a good wife did and would undoubtedly please him greatly and the last thing she wanted was for him to stop buying her jewelry.

So she wore the necklace, and the matching earrings and the matching bracelet she had gotten over the course of a year - birthday, wedding anniversary and Christmas respectively, but the pins she clasped in her delicately laid hair were her own.

Just a little touch of elegance wouldn’t hurt, not that many would understand. Tonight's extravagance was for business partners she had never heard of, as, like her aunt-in-law so generously put it, insight to family business only extended to blood.

On the way down, as the silks of her gown whispered against her thighs, she could see the outlines of the replaced paintings even in the flickering lights that illuminated the rooms for the night.

But while the electricity was fickle, her smile never failed, nor did the sharpness of her gaze.

Just because it was not hers to know, did not mean she had no interest in finding out.

After most were on the closing sips of their first glass of champagne, Thomas and Arthur and a few other men moved onto a more private discussion for which a change of scenery seemed necessary.

She saw them leave through the door to the library but when she went there for some much needed air, it was empty.

That only left a return to the hallway, which was filled with guests, or the servant’s staircase at the back.

Not up, she thought, someone who took such great care to remove themselves from a situation would not then choose the option that limited their movement further.

So down it was, to the kitchens and cellars and storage rooms.

All day there had been a hassle to rival the preparations for war, with everything being prepared only to the finest of standards, clattering of pots and pans, shouting of a handful of cooks over a dozen kitchen helpers, the murmur of honest work being completed.

Now there was anything but.

Granted, they had settled the menu for tonight to allow for maximum flexibility, but that did not mean the complete absence of work, nor of people.

A lady of the house snooping about in the kitchens, of course only to inquire after the selection of brandy Thomas ought to have made for after dinner, if asked, would not go unnoticed- if there was anyone left to notice.

But it was as if all birds had escaped the cage, all chickens fluttered out the den, all horses escaped the pasture. There was no sound, no sight, nothing but the buzzing of the event upstairs.

Until she smelled the smoke of the cigarettes coming from behind the kitchen.

Walking on her tiptoes to prevent her heels from giving herself away, she crept closer, until she could touch the cold wall, just below where the window was tilted open to let the kitchen smoke escape - and now let the cigarette smoke in.

“-....gotta change me shirt before we get back.”, she heard Thomas say, followed by a slight, strained cough. For a man so keen on appearances, he was so easy to slip back into his old speech patterns when with his brother. Such a mistake was so easily and obviously avoidable, but when in the company of Arthur, it was a certainty for him.

“Yeah, yeah, you do that Tom. I’ll just get some boys to clean up the mess in the meat room.”, she heard her brother-in-law mumble.

She removed herself quickly, if either one of them decided to use the kitchen door to get back in and held her breath until she knew it was clear.

How strange - that Arthur would want the meat room cleaned in the middle of a party, she thought, as she kept her company with the storage boxes of wine, both new and those predating her husband’s purchase of the house.

It was an easy guessing game of which was which, but not one she was interested in, and with Arthur’s promise to return quickly, she’d have to move quicker still.

Glancing left and right, before she reached for the door knob, she was surprised to find it locked. The easy thing would have been to ask Frances or the cook for a key, as they both had one or to retrieve the spare key in the butler’s office, the appropriate thing would have been to return to the celebration. The smart thing, the only thing that would satiate her more, was to pull one of her bejeweled hair pins out of the back of her updo and twirl it between her fingers.

Locks were so much like men, one just had to know which buttons to press and how to do it, but after a bit of fumbled wiggling, both inevitably gave in.

It opened with a slight click, making her heart flutter with excitement, as she pushed it open with her shoulder, gathering her skirts in anticipation of the unsavory stains of blood and worse that would stain the white tiled rooms.

But when she looked up, she was met with eyes, a pair of warm brown eyes ripped wide open as if surprised to see her - only they didn’t see her. They couldn’t see her.

The pin slipped from her hands as she clasped them tightly over her face to keep herself from screaming, disappearing in a scarlet puddle as she stared at the man, at his eyes, his parted lips, and the metal hook that had been driven through his throat, holding his lifeless body up at the place where he had met his end.

There was another, further back, his body slumped to the side like a forgotten sack of coal, with his face turned away from her, blood still seeping out from under him.

And there was a third, laying on the table where the butchers would prepare the game after a hunt, his hand but an inch from a cleaver, still reaching it seemed.

One. Two. Three.

All men she had seen just moments ago, with life in their eyes and strength in their limbs as they left the dining room for the library - left with Arthur and Thomas.

She did not even realise she was running until she reached the door to their bedroom, her mind remembering in the very last moment that Thomas had spoken about changing, so she turned in the opposite direction, all the way down the hall to one of the countless guest rooms.

They would house some guest or cousin for the night who had already unpacked, but she didn’t care as she slammed the door shut, her fingers slipping again and again as she turned the lock.

She wanted to scream, to hurl, to curl up in the corner and weep, for herself as much as the three she had seen. She wanted to fill her coat lining with jewels and run, run straight to the train station, on a ship - to the Americas, or Australia, or Africa - anywhere, anywhere but here.

But she couldn’t leave.

She couldn’t stay here either. Soon she would be missed, if she wasn’t already. No, she had to go down. She had to smile, to talk, to drink, to dance because if she didn’t the guests would know, and worse, Thomas would know.

Her whole body tensed as if the muscles wanted to burst forth, escaping the prison of her skin like rats scurrying away from a sinking ship as she pressed her palms against the wood of the door, forcing herself to breathe, to calm herself, to think - to think on everything that happened, to draw on everything she knew.

She’d survive this, she’d have to. If anyone could, it would be her.

When she turned she could see her reflection in the mirror glass, the abyss of nighttime beyond, painted lips, perfect hair, jewels given by her husband and a silk gown tailored to perfection.

She was the image of elegance and perfection, and when she smiled, no one would ever know. No one could ever know. She would not let them.

By the time she had descended down the stairs, not even her hand was shaking anymore, only her heart was thundering in her chest. It was the only part of her body she could not control, the only thing she could not subjugate to her will, not as she talked to the guests, not as she took her husband's arm, not as she beamed and clapped for his toast.

It thumped and thumped and thumped.

Only in the mingling after the drinks, between billiards and card games, in the haze of exotic cigars did she see Arthur and Thomas talking again, their backs turned.

As if feeling her gaze, Thomas turned.

She smiled at him, the perfect, perfect wife, before turning back to the guest she was talking to, an older woman who had been telling her about her granddaughters.

They would be of an age, she thought, with the girls she had watched that very first time she had met Tommy.

In that very moment the thumping of her heart seemed to match the rhythm of a skipping rope, being hurled through the air in a shadowed street on a distant shore, perfectly in sync with the bright laughter of girls and the song they sang.

“Méfie-toi, méfie-toi, méfie-toi de Barbe-Bleue.“

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@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @chlorrox @watercolorskyy @books-livre @quarterpastmidnight @lilyevanswhore @polishcrazyone @zablife @just-a-harmless-patato @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @babayaga67 @butterfly-skinnylegend @shelbydelrey @mrkdvidal1989 @raincoffeeandfandoms @midnightmagpiemama @adaydreamaway08 @trixie23

Tommy

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#valentineswritings #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby / reader #tommy shelby & reader #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby / reader #thomas shelby & reader #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader imagine #thomas shelby x reader imagine #peaky blinders imagine #barbe bleue

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