The Rose of Birmingham | ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ

Seventeen | ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ

"Aye, ya gotta be there, alright?" Tommy said into the telephone receiver. "I want as many members of the family present as possible."

"I don't wanna hang around a bunch of bloody toffs all night, Tom," John's voice moaned from the other end of the line. "Up-tight sods in their prim tuxedos and shite drinkin' booze we paid for. Fuck 'em."

"Booze I paid for," Tommy corrected. He ran a hand over his face and slouched lower on his desk chair. "John, listen to me, eh? Ya listenin'? You're me brother. Ya need to be there. You and Arthur. And Pol. It's important. Alright?"

John clicked his teeth. "Yeah, alright," he said, his tone amicable. "For you, Tom. But I'd rather spend me Saturday night at the Garrison than a stuffy party for the Grace Shelby Institute. Just so y'know."

"I'd rather be at the Garrison, too, John," Tommy agreed. "Bring your wife, will ya? These posh types like to see family inclusion. Stable married couples an' all that."

"Alright, yeah. I'll be there. With Esme."

"Good man. Eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock," John repeated.

After they'd said their goodbyes, Tommy returned the receiver to its cradle and pinched the bridge of his nose. One telephone call, and he was worn out as a whore come closing time. Why was every little item, feat, and addendum with his family like pulling fucking teeth?

And now he had Rose to deal with.

Rose. There was far more to that girl than met the eye. After her initial protest, she'd taken his shooting tutorial with surprising ease and focus. Especially considering her reason for an aversion to guns. She had moxie. No denying it. He had no plans of admitting it to her, but he'd found it oddly thrilling to see his revolver in her hands.

Despite his exhaustion, Tommy sniffed a laugh. She was a constant source of entertainment, that lass. Her face when he'd pulled her diary from his pocket... Priceless. Unforgettable.

He'd lied to her. About the diary. He had done much more than 'skim a few sentences.' Some pages he'd read from top to bottom. Through her words, he'd learned a great deal about her character. Her stances. Her late fiancé. The current location of her two karat diamond engagement ring. And possibly most salient of all, her thoughts on him. The last entry had been especially enlightening.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he retrieved the small leather-bound notebook he always carried on his person. He flipped through the pages to the last few he'd written on, revealing the quotes he had jotted down from Rose's diary.

Underhanded, perhaps. But everything inside Arrow House belonged to Thomas Shelby. Everything. And it wasn't his fault she'd neglected to take the journal back to her room when she'd retired the previous night.

His lips formed a smirk as he read her words in his handwriting:

Before I met Atticus, my taste in men was a bit questionable. Spontaneous...

Tommy quirked an eyebrow in interest and skimmed ahead.

If I allow myself to be governed by desire rather than reason, I could be besotted with Mr. Shelby before the week is out. He is exactly the kind of man my nineteen-year-old self would have fallen for: handsome features, boundless charisma, dangerous and forbidden.

A warmth of satisfaction spread through his belly as he read the confession. He imagined Rose's cheeks turning pink as she thought of him and wrote these words, and it gave him a stir in a near-forgotten corner of his mind. If properly inspired, she 'could be' besotted with him. And she was consciously aware of it. Useful, that. Perhaps he'd been too hasty in his assessment of her inability to be seduced.

He skimmed to the end.

I wonder if Daphne is privy to any pertinent information. It wouldn't surprise me.

Daphne. The cousin. Seemed she was a proper journalist, always in the know. Well, Tommy needed to know more about this mythical, desirous nineteen-year-old Rose, and if these diary entries were any indication, through Daphne was the way to go about it.

He would have to meet her.

Flipping back to the previous page, he skimmed until he found his son's name.

...Charlie seems darling. Such an adorable little boy. I've always wanted a child, and I have a feeling he and I shall be fast friends.

Tommy smiled, and this time the expression was genuine. He'd had an inkling that Rose would take a shine to Charlie. And vice-versa. Though he was often able to read people and anticipate their behaviors, the satisfaction never lessened.

In regards to his missing mother ... Charlie is right: I do look like her. I wonder if Mr. Shelby has noticed.

Tommy's gaze migrated from his notes to the small photograph of Grace on his desk. He had most certainly noticed. From the first moment he'd seen Rose in his foyer.

Beside him, the telephone rang.

He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"So you're home," came Lizzie's voice from the other end. There was an edge of accusation in her tone. "That figures. Ya plan on comin' in to work today, Tom?"

"Don't need ya to be my keeper, Lizzie," Tommy replied. "I'll be in later."

"How much later, eh?" Lizzie questioned. "Ya got two meetings that ya can't miss this afternoon. A potential new supplier from Covertry at one o'clock, and the Chamber of Commerce at three."

"I know, Lizzie," Tommy sighed, running his hand over his face. "I've never missed a meetin', have I? I'll be in before the first."

"Alright," Lizzie relented. There was a pause accompanied by the sound of papers shuffling. "Since I have you," she continued, "thought you'd want to know sooner rather than later that we had another resignation this morning."

Tommy's eyebrow twitched. "Another?"

"Aye. Another," Lizzie confirmed. "Factory floor worker. I'd barely sat down at my desk before he was standin' in front of me, givin' notice. New job, he said."

"New job," Tommy repeated in monotone. "Where?"

"Have a guess."

"Fuckin' Gallagher Automotive Factory."

"Got it in one," Lizzie said. "How many does that make now? We gotta do somethin' about this, Tom."

"I plan to, Lizzie," he stated. "It will be dealt with. Soon. Anythin' else? While we're on the line?"

"Yes, as a matter o'fact," she said. "For the Grace Shelby benefit, ya need a co-host. You'll run yo'self ragged and miss out on donation opportunities if ya try to host alone. Ya know I'm right."

"Co-host, eh? Ya volunteering, Lizzie?"

"Fuck, no." Lizzie barked a laugh. "No, not me. My days of coaxin' open the pockets of men's trousers are over, aren't they? What ya need is someone skilled in gettin' tight-fisted rich folk to part with their beloved money. For fuck's sake, don't say Arthur. Don't even say Polly, Tom. It's gotta be someone who can speak to these toffs in their own language. And it'd be best if it was someone who genuinely cared about children."

"Hmmm," Tommy hummed in agreement. "You're right about that."

He picked up his notebook and reread a passage from Rose's diary:

...Charlie seems darling. I've always wanted a child, and I have a feeling he and I shall be fast friends...

"O'course I'm right," Lizzie said through the telephone. "So, listen, I got a list of contacts here. No one so well-suited for this as Grace woulda been, but I can make some calls. Find someone who fits the bill."

"That's alright, Lizzie," Tommy said. He tapped his finger against his notebook and smiled. "There's no need. I have someone in mind."

【♤】【♤】【♤】

ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ! ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴠᴏᴛᴇ! ☆