Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 32
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“She won’t be.” Tom was sure of it. A bit off at times? Maybe. But she had been in life too. Her genius was its own kind of madness, but her kindness had survived her death. “It’s no matter to me. I’ll love her anyway. Keep her safe. I promised to care for her as long as we live. I never made that kind of promise before her, and I don’t plan on breaking it.”
Lifting to her toes, she kissed his scarred cheek. “You’re a good man, Tom Dargin.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “All I know is I’m a better man for her.”
My dearest Lenore,
If you’re reading this letter, it’s because I have finally slipped into the dark night that has been beckoning for so long now. I hope Tom is the one delivering the news to you. I hope you have the fortune to meet the wonderful man who made the last months of my life so full of love and life. Be kind to him, dear friend, for I think he will not come to you unbruised.
He loves me. And I love him. Most desperately.
He is, and will remain, my truest hero. My most dashing knight. The most honorable of scoundrels.
Remember me, Lenore. Remember our happy days at school and our silly rambles around town. Remember my stories. I hope they continue to bring joy to you and my readers. I wish there were more to leave behind, but I suppose I’d need a hundred years or more to write all the stories crowding my imagination. Twenty-nine was never going to be enough.
I’ve left them to you, my dearest editor, to do with as you please. I wasn’t able to finish the grand story with the airships, but as you have a most excellent imagination, I know you will imagine a fine end for your favorite heroine. After all, I’ve given her your name.
I hope you find your own adventure. If there is one thing love has taught me, it is that one should never wait for life. Dare to live dangerously. You never know what mysteries could be waiting in the shadows.
I remain your true friend. Happy to the end. Content. And eager for the unknown embrace of night.
Yours, always,
Josephine Shaw Murphy
THE pretty, brown-haired woman set down the letter with tears in her eyes.
“Did she go peacefully?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Tom said with a rueful smile. “Not Josie. She fought it, and I held her till the end.”
A small sob escaped Miss Tetley’s lips, and she covered her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. Tom recognized Josie’s slightly messy stitches on the edges.
“She was happy,” Tom said. “She didn’t linger long. Was active and writing up until two nights before she died. I’m happy for that.”
Miss Tetley smiled. “She would have liked that. She could never be idle. A homebody, yes, but not an idle one. She loved working too much. There was always another book to read or a reference to check. A story to plan.”
“She had great respect for you. And great affection. She spoke of you often.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy. I am so sorry for your loss. Yet so happy you had the time with her that you did.”
He nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
“Her father… it was only a few nights before that he died, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Only two nights.”
“They were so very close.”
“They were.”
“Did…” She fidgeted a bit. “I know she was very keen that Mrs. Porter would receive the house in Bray, along with a generous allowance. Can you see that it be done? I hate to intrude, but Mrs. Porter—”
“Will be well looked after,” Tom said. “Josie was very clear. I’m happy to see that she has a good retirement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy. I worried that Neville would make problems for you.”
“Mr. Burke, as it happens, seems to have left Dublin. There’s no sign of him at his usual haunts. There were rumors he’d fallen in with some disreputable companions.”
“Oh.” Miss Tetley’s eyes widened. “How fortunate her father’s business interests were transferred to your family then.”
“We do not take the responsibility lightly, miss.”
A few more polite exchanges left Tom feeling adrift. He had never been one for small talk—even less so when he felt as if he was lying—so he departed soon after Miss Tetley’s father and mother returned from the theater. The young woman wiped her eyes and stood, clearly wrecked from grief but with a smile on her face.
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for delivering her letter and the books she left me. I’ll treasure them.”
“I’m glad.”
“Will you be all right, sir?”
Tom paused. “I will never forget her. She was the most unexpected gift of my life. But she’d want me to keep going, wouldn’t she?”
Miss Tetley nodded and gave him a brave smile. “She would.”
“Then I’ll be fine.”
He put on his hat, tipped it toward her, and walked into the foggy London night.
THE house in Kinvara belonged to Anne. It was a great old farmhouse build up from a stone cottage that stood at the edge of Galway Bay. Most importantly, it was isolated. No humans lived around them for miles.
Like Tom, Josie had an affinity toward saltwater, which was lucky as the whole of Galway Bay was available for their play.
And they played.
They roamed the ocean, Josie buoyant with the joy of unexpected vitality. Tom often caught her breathing deeply as she sat in the salt air. She’d listen in wonder at the silence of her own lungs. Then a rare joy would cross her face, and she’d leap into the ocean, dancing beneath the water as if she were a mermaid.
Lifting to her toes, she kissed his scarred cheek. “You’re a good man, Tom Dargin.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “All I know is I’m a better man for her.”
My dearest Lenore,
If you’re reading this letter, it’s because I have finally slipped into the dark night that has been beckoning for so long now. I hope Tom is the one delivering the news to you. I hope you have the fortune to meet the wonderful man who made the last months of my life so full of love and life. Be kind to him, dear friend, for I think he will not come to you unbruised.
He loves me. And I love him. Most desperately.
He is, and will remain, my truest hero. My most dashing knight. The most honorable of scoundrels.
Remember me, Lenore. Remember our happy days at school and our silly rambles around town. Remember my stories. I hope they continue to bring joy to you and my readers. I wish there were more to leave behind, but I suppose I’d need a hundred years or more to write all the stories crowding my imagination. Twenty-nine was never going to be enough.
I’ve left them to you, my dearest editor, to do with as you please. I wasn’t able to finish the grand story with the airships, but as you have a most excellent imagination, I know you will imagine a fine end for your favorite heroine. After all, I’ve given her your name.
I hope you find your own adventure. If there is one thing love has taught me, it is that one should never wait for life. Dare to live dangerously. You never know what mysteries could be waiting in the shadows.
I remain your true friend. Happy to the end. Content. And eager for the unknown embrace of night.
Yours, always,
Josephine Shaw Murphy
THE pretty, brown-haired woman set down the letter with tears in her eyes.
“Did she go peacefully?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Tom said with a rueful smile. “Not Josie. She fought it, and I held her till the end.”
A small sob escaped Miss Tetley’s lips, and she covered her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief. Tom recognized Josie’s slightly messy stitches on the edges.
“She was happy,” Tom said. “She didn’t linger long. Was active and writing up until two nights before she died. I’m happy for that.”
Miss Tetley smiled. “She would have liked that. She could never be idle. A homebody, yes, but not an idle one. She loved working too much. There was always another book to read or a reference to check. A story to plan.”
“She had great respect for you. And great affection. She spoke of you often.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy. I am so sorry for your loss. Yet so happy you had the time with her that you did.”
He nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
“Her father… it was only a few nights before that he died, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Only two nights.”
“They were so very close.”
“They were.”
“Did…” She fidgeted a bit. “I know she was very keen that Mrs. Porter would receive the house in Bray, along with a generous allowance. Can you see that it be done? I hate to intrude, but Mrs. Porter—”
“Will be well looked after,” Tom said. “Josie was very clear. I’m happy to see that she has a good retirement.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy. I worried that Neville would make problems for you.”
“Mr. Burke, as it happens, seems to have left Dublin. There’s no sign of him at his usual haunts. There were rumors he’d fallen in with some disreputable companions.”
“Oh.” Miss Tetley’s eyes widened. “How fortunate her father’s business interests were transferred to your family then.”
“We do not take the responsibility lightly, miss.”
A few more polite exchanges left Tom feeling adrift. He had never been one for small talk—even less so when he felt as if he was lying—so he departed soon after Miss Tetley’s father and mother returned from the theater. The young woman wiped her eyes and stood, clearly wrecked from grief but with a smile on her face.
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy, for delivering her letter and the books she left me. I’ll treasure them.”
“I’m glad.”
“Will you be all right, sir?”
Tom paused. “I will never forget her. She was the most unexpected gift of my life. But she’d want me to keep going, wouldn’t she?”
Miss Tetley nodded and gave him a brave smile. “She would.”
“Then I’ll be fine.”
He put on his hat, tipped it toward her, and walked into the foggy London night.
THE house in Kinvara belonged to Anne. It was a great old farmhouse build up from a stone cottage that stood at the edge of Galway Bay. Most importantly, it was isolated. No humans lived around them for miles.
Like Tom, Josie had an affinity toward saltwater, which was lucky as the whole of Galway Bay was available for their play.
And they played.
They roamed the ocean, Josie buoyant with the joy of unexpected vitality. Tom often caught her breathing deeply as she sat in the salt air. She’d listen in wonder at the silence of her own lungs. Then a rare joy would cross her face, and she’d leap into the ocean, dancing beneath the water as if she were a mermaid.
