Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances

by Elizabeth Hunter

  He flipped it away from her fingers.

  “Tom!” She heard Anne slip from the room. “What on earth—”

  “Who is Joseph Doyle?”

  Her mouth dropped open. Her heart sped. “It isn’t… I mean—”

  “I can hear your heart racing from here. Tell me.”

  Josie frowned. “That’s impossible. There’s no way for you to hear—”

  “Who is he, Josephine? Why is someone sending letters to a Joseph Doyle care of you at your father’s house? Who is he? Is that why you’ve been spending your days over there?”

  “You’re mad.” She’d raced past embarrassed and straight into furious. “I’m at my father’s house every day because my father is dying and you’re locked in your rooms working all the time! So don’t question my—”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s me!” Angry tears pricked her eyes. She didn’t know how to fight with Tom. He’d always been too kind. He was gentle with her, sometimes to frustration. A model of quiet humor and utter patience, even when she was at her most distracted. He’d never once raised his voice.

  Glowering had turned to confusion. “What do you mean, he’s you?” He frowned at the letter again. “Did someone mistake your—”

  “Joseph Doyle is… a writer of… of Gothic stories and mysteries. He… That is, he writes for several of the more… popular papers in… in London. And he is… me.” Her face was burning. She stared at the red and blue whorls of the rug at her feet. “Joseph Doyle is one of my noms de plume.” She finally tipped her chin up. “I am sorry I concealed this from you, but I am not sorry I write such stories, nor do I have any plans to stop.”

  He was frowning at the letter, flipping it over in his hands. He stared at it, then cocked his head. Then looked up, a grin slashed across his scarred face. “Are you saying you write penny dreadfuls?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “There are many fine writers in the Gothic genre who write for papers that—”

  He cut her off with a clap of his hand on his thigh. “That’s why you write so many letters. They’re not letters; they’re stories.” He stood and started pacing. “Joseph Doyle sounds—” He snapped his fingers. “Did you write the one about the doctor who was murdering the old women?”

  Josie stood frozen, blinking her eyes rapidly as Tom walked to her. “Did I write the… The one with the scalpel or the one who used poison?”

  “Scalpel.”

  “No, I wrote the poisoner. Only it wasn’t the doctor in the end. He was framed. It was—”

  “The kitchen maid!”

  Josie slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Tom burst into laughter. “There’s a lad on the docks who brings them from London every month. You have the most horrid imagination! The way you described those murders had my stomach churning, Josie. The jerking and frothing at the mouth—”

  “And you read it?”

  He was still laughing. He pulled her hand away from her flushed face and put the letter in it. “One of your noms de plume? Do you have more names I don’t know about?”

  “Viviana Dioli,” she murmured. Surely she would wake up any moment to find that Tom disapproved of his wife pursuing such… unladylike hobbies. Not that she would stop, but she’d been braced for disapproval. Had her arguments planned in advance. But he—

  “Viviana Dioli?” he asked. “Something tells me she doesn’t write horror stories.”

  “Gothic tales of a more romantic nature.”

  His grin turned wicked. “I bet those stories have been getting a bit more detailed over the past few months, eh?”

  Her face burned. Well, obviously.

  “Any others I need to know about, Josie?”

  “No, just… Are you telling me you don’t mind that I write scandalous stories for London newspapers?”

  He leaned closer. “Is it more fun if I disapprove?” He reached back and pinched the back of her thigh. “I knew that naughty imagination couldn’t be just from reading books.”

  “No, it’s been years of wicked mental cultivation.” She batted his hand away. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “No.” He smacked a kiss on her lips. “I’m relieved.”

  A spark of anger flared to life. “Did you really think I was having some kind of affair?”

  “No!” He paused. “Perhaps. There’s no way to answer that question correctly. To be fair, you were hiding things from me.”

  “I was hiding my hobby! Not a lover. And are you implying you don’t have any secrets? You?”

  He grew instantly silent. “Josie—”

  “No.” She turned toward the fire. “I’m still angry. Glad, yes, that you’re not bothered by my writing, but also angry you assumed I’d do something so horrible. I would never be unfaithful to you, Tom.”

  She could feel him at her back. He carefully put his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her head.

  “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?”

  Josie laughed. “Vampires and demons and monsters in the night? Thank God, no. We’d all be doomed, wouldn’t we?”

  “Aye, but it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to live forever,” he said, almost silently, “if you could hold on to the people you loved. It wouldn’t be so bad then, would it?”

  It was as close as he’d come to speaking of her failing health since they’d been married.

  “Was I unfair to you?” she asked. “Should I have refused this?”

  “Never.” He tipped her face up to his, and she could see the odd redness in his eyes again. Or perhaps it was only the light. “I’d not trade a moment of our time together, Josephine Shaw.”

  “Even when I’m acting like a madwoman when a story strikes me?”

  “Especially then.”

  She choked back the lump in her throat and patted his chest. “You are the most patient of husbands, Thomas Murphy. We should go down before our guests arrive.”

  “Hang our guests. Murphy’s the one who invited them.”

  “But I should not neglect my cousin. Even if I do find him somewhat loathsome.”

  Tom grunted and held the door for her. “Why did we agree to host this?”

  “Because Neville technically belongs to me. And our cook is better than your brother’s.”

  “Don’t say that. I might fire her if her food invites company.” He kissed her neck. “Shall we?”

  Though they were separate houses, Tom and Murphy’s town houses near Mountjoy Square were adjoining and even connected through the lower floors. It was, in essence, one very large household, which suited Josie to the ground and allowed her and Anne to share much of the domestic burden.

  Josie had been tickled to learn her night-loving tendencies were entirely indulged in Tom’s household. Indeed, as her sister-in-law was usually busy during the days, Josie spent most of her time writing, which left the evenings free for family.

  As they descended to the drawing room, she heard Anne’s tinkling laughter rising above her cousin’s nasal voice. As Neville had never been particularly amusing, Josie had to guess Anne was humoring him. Tom ushered her in, and she immediately caught the slightly pained look on her sister-in-law’s face.

  “You’re finally here,” Anne said. “Did Tom ‘accidentally’ lose his dinner jacket again?”

  “Have no idea what you’re talking about,” her husband grumbled, kissing his sister-in-law on the cheek.

  “Neville,” Josie said. “How good of you to come.”

  Her cousin looked irritated that he’d been distracted from the lovely Anne Murphy.

  “Hello, cousin. And belated felicitations on your union.”

  “Thank you.”

  Murphy came over accompanied by a pale gentleman with a rather unexpected halo of blond curls and a narrow nose.

  “My dear Josephine,” her brother-in-law said, “may I introduce Mr. William Beecham?”

  “Of course,” Josie said, inclining her head. “Mr. Beecham, welcome to our home. And thank you for joining us for dinner.”

  Cunning green eyes glinted at her before he bowed. His skin was frightfully pale, and Josie wondered at the temperature outside. They’d been having a mild winter, but Dublin weather could be unpredictable.

  “I thank you for your hospitality, madam,” Beecham said. “And my felicitations on your union as well. Seems Tom fooled you after all.”

  There was a meanness in his voice that made Josie want to curl into her husband. Perversely, that fear compelled her to be as clever as possible.

  “I assure you,” Josie said, tucking her hand in the crook of Tom’s elbow, “any subterfuge was on my part. I hid all my most irritating qualities and hurried him to the altar. Poor Mr. Murphy never stood a chance.”

  The company laughed, but Mr. Beecham’s gaze never left hers. They rested on her with a kind of furtive glee. As if he knew a secret she would soon discover and hate.

  “Mr. Beecham, you must be a villain,” she quipped.

  Neville laughed, unaware the rest of the room had gone silent. “Why must he be a villain, cousin?” He nudged Beecham’s shoulder. “Josephine tells the most amusing stories, William. She has since she was a child.”

  “Has she?” The handsome man’s eyes hadn’t left her. “Pray tell, Mrs. Murphy, why must I be a villain?”

  “Your face is too handsome, sir, and your hair too angelic.” She smiled innocently. “I daresay it is your fate to be a villain or a saint. And isn’t a villain the more interesting role?”

  Beecham threw his head back and laughed. “Tom, your wife amuses me. I quite approve.”

  She felt her husband tense when Beecham said he “approved,” but he only said, “Thank you, Mr. Beecham.”

  It was the oddest dinner party Josie had ever attended.

  Mr. Beecham clearly occupied some role of authority among the gentlemen, though he was vague about his occupation. Neville seemed to worship the man. Murphy and Tom offered him grudging respect, and Anne ignored him as much as possible. It was so unlike her husband to condescend to a man of Beecham’s character that Josie thought she must have frowned at Tom through dessert.

  She and Anne were the only ladies in attendance, so when the gentlemen called for the port and cigars, they both retired for the night. Anne, she could tell, had something troubling her. And though she was growing closer to her new sister-in-law, she did not yet consider herself a confidante.

  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 fantast
ical 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.”