Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 23
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She went to her sitting room, which doubled as her study, and started to work on the next chapter of the new story she’d been sending to Lenore. It was a departure for her, inspired by some of the fantastical tales of Jules Verne she’d been recently engrossed in. Her new husband was a fan of the scientific adventures, and she’d taken a liking to them as well. She was so engrossed in the tale of airships, resurrectionists, and questionably honorable demons that she missed Tom’s entrance entirely. She looked up when the coals shifted in the fireplace, and he was sitting across from her, watching her work.
“Tom! I didn’t see you there. Is it very late?” Josie struggled to focus. She was still lost in the story and wanted to finish the scene.
“Not so late,” he said quietly. “Why don’t I go change out of this jacket? I was smoking.”
And smoke bothered her lungs, so he would change. Because he was Tom.
“Thank you, darling. Just give me a few more minutes. The heroine…” She drifted off, still thick in the middle of describing a haunting scene in a foggy graveyard. She was considering a new villain for the story. One with a high forehead, a halo of curls, and unnatural, glowing green eyes. After all, it was the most beautiful faces that hid the most horrible demons.
The fire was dying by the time she put her pen down. Tom was watching her again, stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves, lounging on the couch across from her desk.
“I love watching you work,” he said quietly. “You frown and scowl. Then smile and cry. Sometimes I see your mouth moving when you say their words. Every emotion is on your face as you write. Is it whatever the character is feeling?”
She tried not to be embarrassed. “I don’t know. Probably. Do you want to read this chapter?”
Josie had found Tom to be quite the excellent editor. Talking over story ideas with him had become one of her favorite pastimes, though he often laughed at the outlandish plot devices the newspaper audiences seemed to love.
“Course I want to read it. Has she discovered the hero isn’t what he seems?”
“Yes, but I’m thinking about adding a new villain. One with blond curls and green eyes.”
Tom smiled, but only for a moment. “Not too obvious, all right?”
“Would he even know?”
“William Beecham is… resourceful. Dangerous. If you ever meet him in town, avoid him. If you can’t avoid him, speak as little to him as possible. And don’t be clever or interesting. You don’t want Beecham interested in you. He’s interested enough as it is.”
Josie blinked. “Tom, I was joking, but you act as if he is a villain.”
“He’s powerful. And not to be crossed lightly.”
“Is Neville safe?” A chill crept over her, despite the warm room. “Why was he in our house?”
“He wanted to meet my new wife. Murphy thought it would be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“We must do business with the man. We… condescend when we must. For now.”
“He said he ‘approved’ of us.” She couldn’t stop the shiver. Mrs. Porter would say someone had walked over her grave. “What an odd thing to say. Who is he to approve of us?”
“He’s…” Tom’s eyes burned. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t approve enough.”
“What—”
“Forget William Beecham.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Josie, if there were a way to… cure you. If there were a way to get better—even if you had to leave Dublin—would you want it?”
She could feel the color drain from her face. “What?”
“If there were a treatment—”
“Stop.” Her voice grew hoarse. “There’s nothing, Tom.”
“But if there were—”
“Don’t you think Father looked? Do you know how many years I spent being poked and prodded? I’ve inhaled the most horrendous concoctions you could imagine. We tried sanatoriums and hospitals. I went to Switzerland, for God’s sake. Don’t be cruel.”
“I never want to hurt you.” His eyes were red again. “But if there was a way—”
“Stop!” She stood, knocking over her inkwell in her haste. She must have stood too fast, because it seemed Tom was there before she could blink, righting the bottle and blotting the ink so it didn’t spill over her manuscript.
“Careful,” he murmured. “I’m only asking. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Of course I’d want it,” she said. “Don’t you think I’d do anything to stay with you? I… I love you, Tom. So much. But there’s nothing.” She cleared her throat and felt the beginning press of tightness in her chest. “So please don’t give me some kind of false hope. It’s not fair.”
He said nothing more. Tom straightened her desk, laid aside her work for the evening, then took her to bed. He spent hours making silent love to her. He didn’t return her words, because he didn’t have to. Josie knew her husband wasn’t a talkative man. His touch. His kiss. Every caress was its own declaration.
But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together.
What foolish words she’d once found romantic. Her lover could not die! Tom had to live so he could remember. Because if he remembered she had lived and loved him, then Josie could find the courage to say good-bye.
“Tom! I didn’t see you there. Is it very late?” Josie struggled to focus. She was still lost in the story and wanted to finish the scene.
“Not so late,” he said quietly. “Why don’t I go change out of this jacket? I was smoking.”
And smoke bothered her lungs, so he would change. Because he was Tom.
“Thank you, darling. Just give me a few more minutes. The heroine…” She drifted off, still thick in the middle of describing a haunting scene in a foggy graveyard. She was considering a new villain for the story. One with a high forehead, a halo of curls, and unnatural, glowing green eyes. After all, it was the most beautiful faces that hid the most horrible demons.
The fire was dying by the time she put her pen down. Tom was watching her again, stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves, lounging on the couch across from her desk.
“I love watching you work,” he said quietly. “You frown and scowl. Then smile and cry. Sometimes I see your mouth moving when you say their words. Every emotion is on your face as you write. Is it whatever the character is feeling?”
She tried not to be embarrassed. “I don’t know. Probably. Do you want to read this chapter?”
Josie had found Tom to be quite the excellent editor. Talking over story ideas with him had become one of her favorite pastimes, though he often laughed at the outlandish plot devices the newspaper audiences seemed to love.
“Course I want to read it. Has she discovered the hero isn’t what he seems?”
“Yes, but I’m thinking about adding a new villain. One with blond curls and green eyes.”
Tom smiled, but only for a moment. “Not too obvious, all right?”
“Would he even know?”
“William Beecham is… resourceful. Dangerous. If you ever meet him in town, avoid him. If you can’t avoid him, speak as little to him as possible. And don’t be clever or interesting. You don’t want Beecham interested in you. He’s interested enough as it is.”
Josie blinked. “Tom, I was joking, but you act as if he is a villain.”
“He’s powerful. And not to be crossed lightly.”
“Is Neville safe?” A chill crept over her, despite the warm room. “Why was he in our house?”
“He wanted to meet my new wife. Murphy thought it would be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“We must do business with the man. We… condescend when we must. For now.”
“He said he ‘approved’ of us.” She couldn’t stop the shiver. Mrs. Porter would say someone had walked over her grave. “What an odd thing to say. Who is he to approve of us?”
“He’s…” Tom’s eyes burned. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t approve enough.”
“What—”
“Forget William Beecham.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Josie, if there were a way to… cure you. If there were a way to get better—even if you had to leave Dublin—would you want it?”
She could feel the color drain from her face. “What?”
“If there were a treatment—”
“Stop.” Her voice grew hoarse. “There’s nothing, Tom.”
“But if there were—”
“Don’t you think Father looked? Do you know how many years I spent being poked and prodded? I’ve inhaled the most horrendous concoctions you could imagine. We tried sanatoriums and hospitals. I went to Switzerland, for God’s sake. Don’t be cruel.”
“I never want to hurt you.” His eyes were red again. “But if there was a way—”
“Stop!” She stood, knocking over her inkwell in her haste. She must have stood too fast, because it seemed Tom was there before she could blink, righting the bottle and blotting the ink so it didn’t spill over her manuscript.
“Careful,” he murmured. “I’m only asking. Didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Of course I’d want it,” she said. “Don’t you think I’d do anything to stay with you? I… I love you, Tom. So much. But there’s nothing.” She cleared her throat and felt the beginning press of tightness in her chest. “So please don’t give me some kind of false hope. It’s not fair.”
He said nothing more. Tom straightened her desk, laid aside her work for the evening, then took her to bed. He spent hours making silent love to her. He didn’t return her words, because he didn’t have to. Josie knew her husband wasn’t a talkative man. His touch. His kiss. Every caress was its own declaration.
But to die as lovers may—to die together, so that they may live together.
What foolish words she’d once found romantic. Her lover could not die! Tom had to live so he could remember. Because if he remembered she had lived and loved him, then Josie could find the courage to say good-bye.
