Peace at last, peaky blinders
March 19th, 1934
He spurred onwards, racing his horse across the undulating countryside. His hands were slick with sweat on the reins. A gnawing sensation built within his chest, a bitter mix of resentment and the urge to retaliate. He should have recognized the absence of symptoms as a sign that his body wasn't failing him. He was instead consumed by the turmoil of his mind. He hadn't anticipated it would weaken him. Before, it had only fueled his resolve.
Yet the Fascists' scheme had nearly succeeded. He had teetered dangerously close to succumbing to despair, ready to end it all. And he would have willingly gone. But Ruby had intervened.
Thomas Michael Shelby MP, OBE. Now stripped of everything but the clothes on his back and the horse beneath him.
In his pocket lay his salvation, crumpled and scorched, the newspaper bearing the headline: "Sir Oswald Mosley and Diana Mitford Marry in Berlin. Saturday 17th March 1934."
Two days had passed since its publication. Two weeks of enduring in the hills near Newmarket after a month of waiting for death's embrace. Even the devil had forsaken him, leaving his sorry soul alive. But now, he was compelled to continue living because Ruby demanded it. If merely surviving is her only plea, then he will honor it.
He must endure, for it was his curse that claimed his daughter's life, and it is his curse that keeps him breathing now. As Thomas gazes down at the horse beneath him, a sudden realization dawns upon him. This white mare resembles the pony his mother had bequeathed him before her untimely passing.
The thought both saddens and consoles him. He wonders if his mother is watching over him, just like Ruby. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he sees the distant wagon ablaze, the one intended to hold his lifeless body. In that burning wreckage, he lost everything he had placed within. His clothes, wedding band, and photographs. That loss cuts deep. The images capture moments with family that he could never repossess. Grace, John, Pol, Ruby—all gone. And the likelihood of obtaining another photograph of Lizzie or Charlie seems slim. Perhaps this sign urges him to begin anew and adopt an anonymous life. He understands the need to disappear, to lie low for a while.
In time, he'll return to his family, or at least to his surviving siblings. His abrupt departure may have stirred up resentment, but it was his only course. He is comforted only by the thought that time and circumstance would eventually guide them back together.
A pressing dilemma looms over the present moment. Thomas has nowhere to go. He had obliterated his own damn house, and with no access to another property (every other bit of it signed off to Ada), he now finds himself back in London, his faithful white horse pushing forward despite its exhaustion, carrying him to the House of Commons. Entering the grand building, he swiftly found Churchill's office.
The man is sitting at his desk, engrossed in writing, appearing lost in contemplation as Thomas approaches. Churchill's gaze lifts to meet his, an eyebrow arching inquisitively, the cigar in his mouth shifting with his words. "Shelby, you look nearly dead. Let's hear it, shall we?" he asks, gesturing for him to sit.
Thomas clears his throat, taking a moment to compose himself. He adjusts his posture and blinks sharply. "Those Fascist bastards, they got me good. It was a setup. I'm not dying from tuberculoma; that was all part of their game, and they nearly won."
"You're not wearing a ring," Churchill observes, and it's so entirely off topic that Thomas considers just getting up and leaving. He doesn't possess the patience for these games right now.
He looked to his bare ring finger and made a feeble attempt at mustering an excuse, "I lost it."
"Your wife left you." Churchill contests bluntly, lacking any hint of sympathy. "A letter I sent to Arrow House a week ago was returned to me—your property destroyed. When I heard about the state of things there and couldn't reach you, I feared the worst," He pauses to raise his cigar to his lips, "Thank goodness those bastards didn't get to you. I told you once that I needed you underground, Shelby. But now you've been forced into the open."
"A long time ago." Thomas figured, "My attempt on Mosley." Recalling the failed assassination, he couldn't help but shudder. It had forced him to his lowest point. If it weren't for Lizzie, he might have ended it all that day. Oh, Lizzie. Thoughts of her now bring a pang of regret. He should have let her in, let her take care of him. But it's too late for that now.
Churchill grunts, "I see. So, what's your plan?" He interlocks his fingers, resting his chin on his hands.
Thomas, for once in his life since the war, doesn't have one. "I'll lay low, get another wagon, and disappear for a while."
Churchill chuckles and shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. The smoke from the cigar swirls upward towards the ceiling. "That's a dreadful plan. They want you dead; hiding out and running away won't solve anything." He lets out a deep sigh as though the conversation is causing him considerable anguish. "We need you, and with a target on your head, we need to eliminate it," Churchill reaches into his desk and retrieves a map. "Charlbury, Oxfordshire. Ditchley Park. That is where you'll go."
Thomas studies the map, his gaze settling on the location. "The Tree's estate. You want me out of the way?" he questions, his eyes fixed on the spot on the map.
"David Beatty and Ronald Tree, are you familiar with them?" Churchill inquires.
Thomas nods, recalling the names. "I know of them. We're not quite acquainted," he replies neutrally, though he wonders how these MPs are connected to the plan to ensure his safety.
"Their mother, Mrs. Beatty, has recently passed," Churchill reveals a hint of satisfaction in his tone that doesn't go unnoticed by Thomas. He wonders what Mrs. Beatty had done to earn such disdain. "Her daughter, widowed, is the heir to a considerable sum. And her brother, Ronald, has expressed concerns about her well-being," Churchill explains, adjusting his glasses on his nose. "Your plan to lay low is flawed. To truly stay safe, you need to remain integrated into society."
"Intergrated? So you want me to marry her." He exhales sharply, "Churchill, she's wealthy. What could I possibly offer her?"
"It's not about what you can offer her; it's about what she can offer you: a chance to regain your standing and obtain temporary protection," Churchill explains.
Thomas mulls over the idea for a moment. He's skeptical of this outlandish plan, but it makes more sense than skulking in isolation. He's been alone for far too long already. "The Fascists will still want me dead. How does having a socialite wife change anything?" He can feel the exhaustion creeping in slowly.
"She's well-connected. It can buy you time." Churchill smiles, "I know you, Shelby. Time is all you need. You'll find a way to dig yourself out of this."
Thomas straightens up, his jaw tightening, "Alright," he responds, his tone clipped. He'd just like to skip to the end of this conversation. "I'll do what needs to be done."
Churchill leans back in his chair and takes a deep breath. His expression softens. He seems relieved that Thomas has agreed to the plan. "Ah. There's the spirit," he remarks with a teasing glint in his eyes. "Marriage won't just offer you protection and social standing; it'll also give you a sense of normalcy and purpose. You've been through hell and back, Shelby. Maybe it's time to find some solace in this chaotic world."
Thomas remains unconvinced, his resolve unyielding. Peace will forever elude him in this world. The two men lapse into a heavy silence, their circumstances pressing down on them.
Finally, Thomas breaks the quiet, "Tell me more about this woman I'm going to marry."
"Margaret Tree is a socialite, but she's also a woman of intellect and strength. Sharp-minded and kind-hearted," Churchill responds, rising from his desk. He strides over to the bar, pouring himself a Scotch and an Irish for Thomas. "You've got charm and know your way around women; you'll have her wrapped around your finger in no time." Churchill adjusts his glasses, his tone growing more solemn. "But remember, this isn't a fling. You must treat her with respect and decency. She hails from a respectable family, and I won't tolerate any harm or danger brought upon her. Are we clear on that?"
With a resigned sigh, Thomas accepts the whiskey from Churchill and takes a moment to consider his words. He recognizes the importance of respecting Margaret, especially considering the circumstances that led him to her. He raises the glass to his lips, "Crystal clear," he confirms, taking a sip of the whiskey. "And her family? I need to know what I'm walking into."
Churchill considers for a moment before responding. "I wouldn't anticipate much resistance. Her elder brother, Ronald Tree, voiced his concerns about her to me. He's unaware of the extent of my involvement, but I can always have a word with him."
Thomas nods thoughtfully, appreciative of Churchill's readiness to intervene on his behalf. His thoughts wander back to the events leading up to this moment as he takes another deep sip of whiskey, relishing the burn as it courses down his throat. He gazes into the amber liquid, mesmerized by the play of lamplight upon its surface. While he's adept at the art of seduction, the notion of a formal courtship feels unfamiliar and daunting. The weight of expectations bears down on him, suffocating in its intensity.
"What if I fail?"
Churchill's sharp response snaps him out of his reverie. "No time for cold feet now," he admonishes. "I wouldn't propose this plan if I doubted your abilities. Your first step is to make an appearance at Ditchley Park," he instructs. "There's a gathering scheduled there this Saturday. The Tree family will be in attendance, along with the Beatty brothers."
Thomas absorbs the details, appreciating Churchill's straightforward approach. "And once I've engaged her in conversation?" he inquires.
"You know what to do." A glint of cunning sparkles in Churchill's eyes as he leans forward, a smirk on his lips. "Impress her. Charm her," he advises, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.
Thomas processes the information, his mind racing ahead to the next move. Downing the remainder of his drink and setting it down with a harsh thud, he meets Churchill's gaze squarely. "I'll be there," he pledges. "And once I've captured her attention, I'll do right by her. You have my word."
"Excellent," Churchill nods in approval. "The gathering's intimacy works in our favor. The Beattys are keen hunters, so foxhunting will likely be on the agenda. We'll receive invitations to extend our stay for several days. Initially, I had planned for just one day, but I can adjust accordingly. I'll inform Ronald of your attendance. And if you require my assistance, I can also extend my stay."
Thomas listens quietly, his mind already calculating the complexities of the upcoming gathering. He's not a fan of foxhunting, but he recognizes its significance in this context. His relations with Margaret would be limited to a political partnership born out of necessity rather than desire. He'd need to adjust to secure a marriage that could safeguard his future.
"I'll manage," he asserts confidently, his posture firming.
Churchill spoke up once more, his voice resonating with authority. "Margaret deserves more than just a husband," he proclaimed. "She deserves a partner who appreciates her intellect, independence, and fiery spirit. Mr. Shelby, I have chosen you not only for your position but for the qualities that I believe could match her wit and strength. Do not disappoint me." His words carried a weight of expectation, urging Thomas to meet the challenges ahead. A brief understanding passes between them. He's familiar with Thomas's skills and adaptability. "Right then, that's settled." Churchill rises from his chair, his voice regaining its usual assertiveness. "Get some rest, Shelby. You look like hell."