Author's Note: Like a lot of people out there, I am a huge fan of the show Peaky Blinders. Welcome to my first Tommy/OC story!

Just as a bit of background, this story is slightly AU, as Grace died giving birth to Charles, and her and Tommy were married when she told him of the pregnancy.

I hope you enjoy! Please review and let me know what you think!

Mercy watched on as Charlie played contently in the vast gardens of his father's estate, his small and chubby hands clutched awkwardly around a wooden block that he gummed constantly, a teething habit Mercy had become familiar with over the past week. The sun had been strong enough this late June to spend middays outdoors, leaving a sun-kissed trail over her usually pale skin and a looseness to her muscles that made her feel like jelly when she would stand, toddler in arms, to venture back indoors for the smallest Shelby's routine nap time.

It was in those moments – head-propped on her hand as she lay, grinning at the little boy she had grown to love deeply – that Mercy believed truly that she was one of the luckiest people in the world.

As a little girl that lived in a small village only a mile from the sprawling and grand stately home, Mercy would trundle past the wrought iron gates every Saturday morning on her way to market, a basket in hand ready to be filled with potatoes and carrots, the ingredients of a hashed and cheap stew that was their staple Sunday evening meal. Small even for an eight-year-old, Mercy looked feeble in comparison to the intimidating entryway that she would wander up to in enchantment, pressing her cold little nose between the black bars in a daydream.

She'd muse endlessly about the people that lived within the towering grey stone walls: were they beautiful? She'd bet they were. Were they hungry? She'd bet never. Were they happy? How could they not be? Mercy would be filled with an awe and a wonder that only a child could possess, and would picture herself – a little girl with bright eyes and a grin – running through tall corridors and sliding down banisters and sneaking into the kitchens at night for cake handed to her by a jolly, chubby cook…

It was worth the smack should would inevitably receive from her hardened grandmother for being late home.

Of course, now that she resided within those stone walls, she flinched at her naive childhood conclusions and thought about the pain that haunted the hallways, and the frigid ambience that fell upon the overly large estate. It was difficult to permeate the frost, and the only time Mercy felt a semblance of warmth was when she was outside – in the gardens she lazed in at that moment – or when the master of the house, Mr. Shelby, had the company of his loud and boisterous family for dinner. She would sit with them, an aide to Charlie, until the little boy inevitably became tired and overexcited and would need to be swept away to be bathed and put to bed.

And while the glacial atmosphere of the home was most certainly a consequence of the manner of its often-absent master, Mercy could hardly blame him. After all, she was sure he had purchased the hollow rooms to fill them with lots of bubbly children and the laughter of his lovely wife; surely he had purchased it to live a happy life with his family. Dreams that had been cut short when Grace Shelby had died birthing her only son, Charles.

Mercy had been hired in the weeks that followed – a live-in nanny that would care for all of Charlie's needs while Mr. Shelby ran his businesses. At that time, her boss had been vacant; she couldn't be sure if he really heard or saw her during the interview process (thankfully, Polly had been there too, and did seem to be completely present – enough so to hire her, at least). Mercy worked most days – not that she minded at all: Charlie felt as much hers as anyone else's, and it often felt strange to be without him; she was paid handsomely for the trouble, too.

Never in her life did she dream she'd earn so much money. After her first splurge on jodhpurs and simple blouses of differing colours – play clothes she needn't worry about ruining – Mercy was stuck, and siphoned the money into her savings. Or rather, the lock box at the bottom of her wardrobe. Her room and food was provided for her by Mr. Shelby, and Mercy knew that she should enjoy it all while it lasted.

In the beginning, Mr. Shelby could barely look at Charlie. Mercy worked around the clock to care for the child, and was sympathetic to the difficulties the father faced, understanding how his son could be a potent reminder of the recent loss the family had experienced. But it had continued that way for months. And Mercy's sympathy had begun to lessen by the day.

Finally, about a month previously, Mr. Shelby had approached Mercy and told her that she was to have that Sunday to herself, for he would be taking Charlie to look at new horses for the day. Mercy had nodded, surprised and a little curious about the abruptness of change, before explaining that she would have him ready for breakfast that day at least, and would be home in the evening should he need her.

It had been small, frequent steps from then on, and every Sunday of the month the father had taken the son for an outing, just the two of them. The ice in the house still remained, but the master of the house seemed to be thawing slightly as his son approached his first birthday.

And while that filled Mercy with joy, she wondered idly if it meant she would become superfluous to requirement soon. So she tucked her money away, just in case the day came that saw her unnecessary in the Shelby household and she would have to move on.

After all, this was all just the dream of a little girl with a cold nose, pressing her face between iron bars that separated her fantasy world from reality.

Charlie threw the block down and giggled as it rolled away. Mercy shook her head with a grin, reached for the little boy and held him close as she stood. "Nap time, sweetheart." And time for her to plan a party.

It was Charles Shelby's first birthday in two weeks, after all, and there were joyous and plentiful celebrations to be had.

She was too pretty.

Tommy had been in a grief-induced stupor when she had been hired – an occasion he could not recall, but had been ensured he'd been present for – and so he hadn't noticed. And he had continued not to notice for the many months that followed.

He'd ignored the crude comments from his brothers about having a girl like her living under his roof, working for him, being paid to do as she was told. He'd let Polly smack them and Ada rail a them as he just sat back, cigarette in one hand and a whiskey in the other, blowing smoke lazily upward, glazed and ghostly eyes unseeing.

She had been living under his roof for almost a year – almost an entire year – and he couldn't have told you what she looked like; he couldn't have picked her out of a crowd if he'd tried.

It had been a month ago that he had begun to surface from his oppressive and suffocating ocean of misery. It was a Tuesday, and as was typical he had barricaded himself in his home office, looking over shipment papers for the factory. There had been a loud bang from the hallway, like something falling, and Tommy had shot up from his chair, grabbed his revolver, and was peering round his office door in an instant.

He only opened it fully and stepped through when he heard the loud laughter of his son, and of – he soon discovered – his son's caretaker, whose name he couldn't bring to the front of his mind.

They were obviously the source of the first commotion, as the girl was laid – or more pointedly, sprawled – on the floor, dark waves fanned out around her, and Charlie sat gleefully on top of her. Both were laughing and happy, until Charlie looked up and called to him ("Dada!"). The sound of his son rocked him, shot him through with delight and bitterness in equal measure, and while his face remained stoic his insides were storming with confused emotion.

She tilted her head back at that, looking up at him from the carpet with a slowly-diminishing smile. Black lashes were thick, and framed eyes of a colour that Tommy recognised instantly: an amber shade that reminded him of a tumbler of whiskey shot through by sunlight. Warm and inviting to him; tempting, soothing, and a bad idea.

Clearing her throat she had stood hurriedly, Charlie in her arms, the little boy confused by the sudden shift in mood. She had apologised and promised to clean away the toys she had inevitably slipped on before disappearing through the door of his son's bathroom, while he leaned back against the door frame, nodded once and remained silent.

She was indeed too pretty. Too much attention would be drawn to her in public; a face too easily remembered for the nanny of the son of the infamous Tommy Shelby, who had too many enemies to count. It had been a mistake to take her on in that capacity.

But by the time Tommy had noticed her, it was too late.

From then, when Tommy had the time and opportunity, he would watch the way his son would light up in the young woman's presence. He saw how Charlie would look to her when he was happy, when he was hurt, when he was scared. Tommy saw too clearly the role he had allowed her to take in his son's life through his absence – the role of a guardian, a protector, a mother – and he knew it was too late to repeal the decision made almost a year ago.

Instead, he focused still on his business – legitimate, illegitimate and governmental in fashion, as Churchill hovered in the back of his mind like a shadow – but he turned his attention also to his son. A responsibility he had neglected too easily for too long, and had been forced to confront after hearing Charlie's laughter that Tuesday in the corridor. A laughter that had occurred in spite of him, rather than because of.

Sundays became their days, and he found himself looking forward to it throughout the rest of the week. When he looked into the face of his son, he no longer saw only the ghost of his wife, but also features of his: the same rounded chin, pink of lips and eyes of blue. He watched as his son showed a personality that was entirely his: a cheekiness, a glint of cleverness, an innocence that both he and Grace lacked.

His son was becoming a boy, and Tommy looked forward to throwing a lavish celebration for all of his family, his friends, and the children of the village nearby. Anything money could buy his son would have.

His pretty nanny was testament to that.

The first real conversation Mercy and Tommy had was that afternoon, as Charlie slept peacefully in the crib in the downstairs playroom.

Tommy had had to ask Margaret, his housekeeper, where the young woman and his son could be found and she had directed him to the room at the back of the house, where Mercy (Margaret had corrected him when he'd called her Marcy) was pondering a notebook, rocking in a chair as Charlie slept peacefully.

She was surprised when he had walked in, had assumed it would be Margaret or Glenn – the two members of the house staff that liked her enough to seek her company, or check if she or the baby needed anything. She'd looked up with a happy smile, only for it to stutter when her eyes caught the handsome face of her boss.

"Mr. Shelby," she'd begun, taking a moment to collect herself. Tommy noted silently that her expression flickered obviously, her face open and easy to read, not often something he encountered in the people he dealt with, or those who worked for him. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mercy." Her own name sounded foreign to her – she'd never heard him use it before, and it threw her off more than she'd care to admit. "I've come to discuss Charlie's birthday with you. I'm sure you're aware it's two weeks away –" she nodded, still a little hesitant – "and I would like to throw a party, here in the gardens. There will be a lot of people in attendance – friends and family, some children from the village – and I hoped you would work with Margaret to organise entertainment, events, for the children. I will handle the invitations and Henry will sort the food, of course."

Mercy noticed that, though he was asking something of her, it wasn't phrased as a question, and she supposed that someone of his wealth and status didn't need to make requests of people like her. She was his employee, after all. What could he ask that she would have a right to deny, particularly in relation to his son?

"Of course, yes, that's fine. Should I ask you before I book anything, or –"

He cut her off, "No. Just let Margaret know the cost and I'll make sure it's handled."

There was something brutal in his manner, cutting and forthright, and it made her feel hard-pressed to converse with him in a way that felt natural. She felt so unlike herself as she looked upon his countenance: the sharpness of his cheekbones, the ice of his eyes, the way his skin stayed smooth and unflinching – it all served to create an intimidating presence that Mercy had to consciously ensure did not cause her to waver.

It was only when he walked over to Charlie and ran a finger over the chubby pink cheek of his son that Mercy noticed a softening of his hard demeanour. He looked almost human in that brief moment: the sun gently illuminated the room, reflecting off of white blankets, a glow of innocence around the baby that captured – just for an instant – the father too.

The spell was broken sharply as Tommy turned back to look at the woman in the chair, who didn't seem embarrassed at being caught watching him. If anything she looked curious, and Tommy didn't have time to ponder why.

"The party will begin in the afternoon, at 12:30. Make sure everything is set to arrive before 12:00. The party will continue until everyone has left or I tell them to go. I'll pay for the entertainment for the day so there won't be a problem."

Whisky eyes met his gaze, "I'll talk to Margaret this evening."

He nodded, cast one last look to his lovely son, and removed himself back to darker rooms of the house, away from the light and the joy. Back to the shadows he strode, to find comfort in a blacker kind of whisky.

Tommy's perspective and dialogue were a little tough for me here – do you think it sounds enough like him? Sorry if you think it's OOC for him. Let me know.