#tommytrix

When Tommy had first bought the house, the groundskeeper had gestured to the adjoining bedrooms and announced that one belonged to Mr. Shelby, the other to his wife. What did they know about money, about wealth and soft beds? So they’d obliged, and tried that arrangement for a few nights, but Beatrice found that her mattress was too soft and her bed too cold, even despite the fire the maids kept going, and so she snuck over to Tommy’s room enough times that he simply kept her there. She sleeps well now, warm in his bed, light on his sheets, but Tommy still rouses in the middle of the night like clockwork.

He dreams of the war. He dreams of being shot by Kimber. He dreams of a life where Beatrice is gone with her young lover, and he bleeds out on Garrison Court. And then he wakes, and there she is—sleeping next to him, wound tight into a ball like always.

Tommy always checks on the baby first, lifts her up from her crib even when she hasn’t been crying, just to put his hands around something he made that won’t hurt. She’s round-cheeked and giggly, squirming around in his arms until he settles in the rocking chair, looking at her for a minute. “Don’t grow up,” he instructs carefully. “It’s a bad world out there, darling. Trust me.”

The baby just coos and blinks her dark eyes, unmistakably her mother’s child. Tommy holds her until she sleeps, and then places her gently in her crib before returning to his own bedroom. Beatrice still sleeps, jaw set tightly, and he goes over to the window out of habit. Between the curtains, the world is still dark, which means anybody could be lurking, but nobody probably is.

He decides to get dressed, so that he can start on some of the paperwork that needs doing downstairs. By the time he’s got his shirt and trousers on, Beatrice has begun to stir. “Tommy,” she mumbles, straining against the weight of her own sleepiness. “Tommy, love, come back to bed.”

He stopps reaching for his shoes, but he doesn’t quite course-correct in returning back to her, so Trixie sticks her arm out blindly and waves it around until she’s grabbed his arm and dragged it back toward her. “Can’t sleep,” he mutters.

“Just try for another hour with me, please,” she asks. “Won’t you try to sleep for the woman you love?”

And he does love her, even if he doesn’t say it often. The way he doesn’t disagree is answer enough. He stares down at her, silk wrapped around her hair carefully, her lips curled up, eyes still stubbornly shut. Beatrice tugs again, and he obliges finally, settling into bed at her side, knowing he’ll end up wrinkling this suit and have to send it to the cleaners.

“You’re dressed,” she notes, rolling over until she’s almost on top of him. His arms lace around her and she loops one hand under his neck.

“Mm-hmm,” he grunts.

“It’s too early,” she says. “Just rest, Tommy. I’ll protect you. Just rest.”

He wants to say something else, to argue, but her breathing is evening as she dips back into sleep. Tommy doesn’t seem to manage it, but he lays there with her nonetheless until the sun comes up.