Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 12

She held the book as if she’d found a treasure. “You’re a reader, Mr. Murphy!”
If he could spend every night making her smile like that, proper manners and fancy dress might just be worth the trouble. “I am, Miss Shaw.”
She motioned to two chairs by the fire, and Tom moved his seat a fraction closer to hers as they sat down.
“I would not have guessed,” Josephine said. “Most of the gentlemen I’ve met since leaving school are not much for reading unless it is the newspapers.”
“I can’t claim to read philosophy or any kind of scholarly books. But I work nights mostly, so a good adventure story is always welcome to pass the time. Ivanhoe is one of my favorites.”
“You work mostly at night? That’s unusual, I think.”
“I oversee most of our warehouses on the waterfront. Ships come in all hours of the day. Deliveries happen very early in the morning.” And the sun will burn me to a crisp. “So yes, most of my hours are at night.” He paused because the question was important. “Would that bother you? Should we…?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. I’ve always been a night bird. I sleep most afternoons and blame it on feeling ill.” She glanced at Mrs. Porter, who only chuckled a little in the corner. “Mostly I just prefer the night. Sunlight can be quite harsh, don’t you think?”
“I quite agree.”
She started talking about books, a subject she was clearly passionate about. They talked about art and museums. About London and her favorite places and why she’d moved back to Dublin after school. Conversation didn’t stop for two hours straight, even when Mrs. Porter started snoring in the corner.
Tom couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She was delightful, as Anne had said. She was also intriguing, smart, and becoming more attractive every moment he spent in her presence. He was no longer merely resigned to marrying the woman; he was shocked to discover he truly desired it. And her.
“I wish you’d call me Tom,” he said quietly, hoping not to wake her chaperone. “I know that’s not very proper, is it?”
“Tom?” she asked, staring at him with wide eyes. “Only Tom? Not Thomas?”
“Just Tom.”
She looked down for a moment before she looked up and met his eyes. “If I do, will you call me Josephine?”
“I don’t think so.” His heart kicked in his chest. “But I might call you Josie.”
Her cheeks pinked. “Josie? No one calls me Josie.”
“I do.”
“Very well,” she whispered, “Tom.”
He took her hand in both of his. “Do you think… you might like to marry me, Josie?”
Josephine’s smile lit up the room. “I believe I might.”
Hello, butterfly.
Chapter Four
My dearest Lenore,
You’ll think me caught up in one of my stories, but indeed, I am not. I am engaged to be married. His name is Mister Thomas Murphy of Dublin. He has two brothers, and he is old! But not too old. He is not handsome, but he is very tall. And, I daresay, his shoulders are dramatically broad. He does, as the housemaids have mentioned, cut a very striking figure.
We suit each other, Lenore. Far more than I ever expected a man to suit me.
I don’t think we will have a large wedding. I don’t want one, and I don’t think Father will insist on it. Tom and I are both too old for foolishness.
I am happy and maybe a little frightened by it. It seems too easy. At some point a monster is sure to intrude, don’t you think? We’re going to the theater tonight. Tom (he insists I call him Tom) said we must celebrate because I did not cough once yesterday.
I like that he does not avoid my illness. He is thoughtful but not overly solicitous.
I haven’t told him about Miss Dioli or Mr. Doyle yet. It might be foolish, but I find I want to ensnare the poor man in matrimony before I announce my alter egos. (This will surely be my tragic downfall, don’t you think? I can see the shadows lurking at the edge of this letter.)
He is no flattering suitor, which I like. He is, however, very excellent company and has a dry wit I value highly. He also gave me a copy of Ivanhoe with a very sentimental inscription. Do not reveal this to anyone (unless you’re taken by villains and tortured for it, of course), but my intended might be a romantic.
Wish me luck, dearest Lenore. I have absolutely no idea what to do with him.
Your faithful friend,
Josephine Shaw
P.S. Tom calls me Josie. Isn’t that grand?
JOSEPHINE held the handkerchief to her mouth, wishing she could shrink back into the seat. Wishing for the first time since she’d met him two months before that Tom Murphy would disappear.
“It was likely all that close air in the theater,” Tom said, flipping open his watch and closing it. “I nearly passed out myself from Mrs. Lark’s perfume. Horrid stuff.”
Fidgeting. He was fidgeting. Tom didn’t fidget.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” she rasped out, then put the muslin to her mouth again to catch the cough. After the spell had passed, she continued. “It’s not going to get better, Tom.” Josephine looked up and almost reeled back at the anger on his face.
“Get your mind off that,” he said. “What kind of man do you think I am?”
“A single man until next week. A healthy man. Not one who needs to be saddled with a—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Josephine Shaw, or you’ll be insulting both of us.”