Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 21
“Forgive me, sweet girl? Jealousy isn’t something I’m used to.”
“I was a spinster for twenty-eight years. I hardly think—”
“You’re clever and funny,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re generous and kind and beautiful.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever thought so.”
His arms tightened around her, and she ignored the tickle in her chest. Pushed back the threat of a cough.
“‘Girls are caterpillars,’” he whispered, “‘when they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes.’”
She tried to turn, but he had her locked in place. “Where did you—”
“I see the butterfly you’ve become. And so do others. I don’t like having to share you with the world.”
Had he read Carmilla too? Or…
I saw no folly tonight. Only perhaps a bit of fancy.
That low voice in the garden months ago was utterly familiar now that she’d heard it in the bedroom.
“It was you,” she said. “In the garden that night. You were the one I talked to.”
“You were beautiful in the moonlight. Are you angry with me?”
“You saw me in my dressing gown.”
The arms around her shoulders tightened, and she felt the laughter in his chest.
“I suppose… I’m not angry,” she said. “Not about that. I wasn’t angry when I thought it was one of our neighbor’s servants, so why should I be angry it was you? Why did you—?”
“I was curious about you. I certainly never expected you’d be out in the garden in the middle of the night. I just wanted to see your home. And then I saw you, and I thought you looked like a fairy queen. In your white gown with your hair falling down your back. You had no fear.”
“Oh no,” Josie said. She managed to turn in his arms and lay her head on his chest. “I was wrapped in fear. I still am some nights.”
Tom kissed the top of her head. “I don’t ever want you to fear again. And don’t hide anything from me. I want all of you.”
“Then you can have it.” For as long as we have.
AFTER they returned from Bray, Josie and Tom never spoke of her illness. While Tom had never shied from it before their marriage, something about them had shifted after those quiet, gentle nights of lovemaking by the seaside. Perhaps they were both living in a state of denial. Her breathing had been marginally better since their return to town, and she avoided any situation or event that could trigger an episode. She spent most nights writing or making love to Tom, who seemed to have an endless, fervent hunger for her.
He was her favorite form of madness.
They explored everything. After her initial nerves had been conquered, she found in her new husband an eager teacher. No question was unanswered. Often, demonstrations were required. They laughed when they loved, and Josie knew she’d fallen in love with Tom quite thoroughly, though she hesitated to say it.
There was a restlessness in her husband, and she knew, however he might accuse her of keeping secrets from him, his own secrets were a weight between them. There was a darkness in him. Too often, a sense of foreboding enveloped her. And her thoughts were… muddled. There was something she knew she wasn’t seeing. She sensed he was a breath away from confessing something too many times to count. But the confession never came, and she didn’t want to press him.
She didn’t want to know.
She wanted to love. To revel in him. To gorge herself on life for as long as she had.
The heaviness in her lungs told her she didn’t have long.
TOM and Murphy had announced the dinner party three nights before, and Josie had found herself curious to meet some of Tom’s business associates. The name of William Beecham was certainly one she’d heard in passing between Tom, Murphy, and their younger brother, Declan, but not with any great humor. She was surprised to find him invited to dinner. Even more surprised her cousin, Neville, would also be present.
“Has Neville tried to call on your father again?” Tom asked, straightening his suit in the mirror in his room before they descended to the drawing room. Because he worked mostly at night, he insisted on keeping separate bedrooms. If she were healthier, Josie would have objected, for she hated waking in the mornings without him. But for their situation, it made sense.
“Not that anyone has said. The servants would have told me.”
“Any change today?”
She shook her head.
Tom feathered a caress across her cheek before he bent to kiss it. “He had a good life, sweet girl. And he’s not in any pain.”
“I know.” She blinked back tears. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He turned to her with his cravat in hand and waited for her to tie it for him. It was a task she enjoyed and one he loathed.
“You know,” she said as she tied the simple knot he preferred, “I never thought I’d do this.”
“Tie a cravat? I agree. Wouldn’t suit you.”
“You know what I mean.” Josie smoothed a hand down the front of his crisp white shirt. “I enjoy these wifely things. They’re like… little gifts I never expected.”
Tom caught her hand and held it silently. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and held her hand there.
“Tom?”
“I don’t suppose those fantastic creatures you write of are real, are they?”
“I was a spinster for twenty-eight years. I hardly think—”
“You’re clever and funny,” he said, cutting her off. “You’re generous and kind and beautiful.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever thought so.”
His arms tightened around her, and she ignored the tickle in her chest. Pushed back the threat of a cough.
“‘Girls are caterpillars,’” he whispered, “‘when they live in the world, to be finally butterflies when the summer comes.’”
She tried to turn, but he had her locked in place. “Where did you—”
“I see the butterfly you’ve become. And so do others. I don’t like having to share you with the world.”
Had he read Carmilla too? Or…
I saw no folly tonight. Only perhaps a bit of fancy.
That low voice in the garden months ago was utterly familiar now that she’d heard it in the bedroom.
“It was you,” she said. “In the garden that night. You were the one I talked to.”
“You were beautiful in the moonlight. Are you angry with me?”
“You saw me in my dressing gown.”
The arms around her shoulders tightened, and she felt the laughter in his chest.
“I suppose… I’m not angry,” she said. “Not about that. I wasn’t angry when I thought it was one of our neighbor’s servants, so why should I be angry it was you? Why did you—?”
“I was curious about you. I certainly never expected you’d be out in the garden in the middle of the night. I just wanted to see your home. And then I saw you, and I thought you looked like a fairy queen. In your white gown with your hair falling down your back. You had no fear.”
“Oh no,” Josie said. She managed to turn in his arms and lay her head on his chest. “I was wrapped in fear. I still am some nights.”
Tom kissed the top of her head. “I don’t ever want you to fear again. And don’t hide anything from me. I want all of you.”
“Then you can have it.” For as long as we have.
AFTER they returned from Bray, Josie and Tom never spoke of her illness. While Tom had never shied from it before their marriage, something about them had shifted after those quiet, gentle nights of lovemaking by the seaside. Perhaps they were both living in a state of denial. Her breathing had been marginally better since their return to town, and she avoided any situation or event that could trigger an episode. She spent most nights writing or making love to Tom, who seemed to have an endless, fervent hunger for her.
He was her favorite form of madness.
They explored everything. After her initial nerves had been conquered, she found in her new husband an eager teacher. No question was unanswered. Often, demonstrations were required. They laughed when they loved, and Josie knew she’d fallen in love with Tom quite thoroughly, though she hesitated to say it.
There was a restlessness in her husband, and she knew, however he might accuse her of keeping secrets from him, his own secrets were a weight between them. There was a darkness in him. Too often, a sense of foreboding enveloped her. And her thoughts were… muddled. There was something she knew she wasn’t seeing. She sensed he was a breath away from confessing something too many times to count. But the confession never came, and she didn’t want to press him.
She didn’t want to know.
She wanted to love. To revel in him. To gorge herself on life for as long as she had.
The heaviness in her lungs told her she didn’t have long.
TOM and Murphy had announced the dinner party three nights before, and Josie had found herself curious to meet some of Tom’s business associates. The name of William Beecham was certainly one she’d heard in passing between Tom, Murphy, and their younger brother, Declan, but not with any great humor. She was surprised to find him invited to dinner. Even more surprised her cousin, Neville, would also be present.
“Has Neville tried to call on your father again?” Tom asked, straightening his suit in the mirror in his room before they descended to the drawing room. Because he worked mostly at night, he insisted on keeping separate bedrooms. If she were healthier, Josie would have objected, for she hated waking in the mornings without him. But for their situation, it made sense.
“Not that anyone has said. The servants would have told me.”
“Any change today?”
She shook her head.
Tom feathered a caress across her cheek before he bent to kiss it. “He had a good life, sweet girl. And he’s not in any pain.”
“I know.” She blinked back tears. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He turned to her with his cravat in hand and waited for her to tie it for him. It was a task she enjoyed and one he loathed.
“You know,” she said as she tied the simple knot he preferred, “I never thought I’d do this.”
“Tie a cravat? I agree. Wouldn’t suit you.”
“You know what I mean.” Josie smoothed a hand down the front of his crisp white shirt. “I enjoy these wifely things. They’re like… little gifts I never expected.”
Tom caught her hand and held it silently. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and held her hand there.
“Tom?”
“I don’t suppose those fantastic creatures you write of are real, are they?”
