I PASSED OUT IN MY CLOTHES LAST NIGHT, MY HAND STILL CLUTCHing the letter we found hidden in the painting. Now it’s morning, and I’m wide awake and dressed, although I still feel a little drunk as I sit at the breakfast bar reading and rereading the sad, short goodbye.
I’m sorry. I cannot marry you, my darling. I love you dearly, but my destiny lies with him. Where he goes, my heart will always follow.
Forgive me.
—Josephine
The envelope it came in is old and yellowed, without a name or anything else to suggest its intended recipient. Not even a date on the letter itself. The epitaph itself sits lonely on the page. I’ve read it dozens of times, and each word is no less gutting with repetition.
I’ve spent weeks imagining the life she must have led. The world spiraling outside her window, ravaged by war, smoldering remnants of a continent emerging from tyranny. What it must have meant to be a young woman when the air raid sirens finally ceased, in a country now left to mourn the dead and rebuild its soul. I can’t even fathom the resilience required. The bravery to endure.
Now I have a name for my mystery woman. Presumably anyway. Except the same questions remain.
Who was Josephine? What was her connection to the Tulley family, and why would they have a portrait painted of her?
And now another mystery presents itself: Who were the loves that pulled at her heart, and who ultimately lost her?
The questions gnaw at my brain all day. I spend hours on Google, each search a variation of the name Josephine and Tulley, each one leading to a dead end. I need better sources, which doesn’t bode well for my resolution to temporarily break up with the Talbot Library. Guess I know what I’ll be doing after class on Monday.
That night, I’m still obsessing over my latest discovery as the group ends up at the pub. Because not enough of us woke up with hangovers.
In the cultural exchange of the past few months, I have to admit I underestimated the commitment of the British to their drinking culture. It’s as if the whole country joined a frat in college and decided to just do that forever until their livers failed them or it gave them superpowers. The superpower being they could drink even more.
“She married the rich one,” Celeste declares from across the table.
“I think that’s it,” Jamie agrees. “You’ve not found a picture or mention of a woman that matches among the nobility of the time, so that seems to suggest she was of common birth. Marrying into the Tulley family was likely a step up.”
As it’s been for a few weeks now, the gang is enthralled with the latest update on the Josephine saga. Tonight, they’re arguing over their theories of Josephine’s letter.
“No, mates.” Lee holds up a hand at Jamie when he dares to protest. “I’m telling you. She was bi. Josephine had a girlfriend. Talk about scandalous for that time, yeah? Why else would the Tulleys get rid of the painting?”
“If she married a Tulley,” Jack says beside me, “why haven’t you found any mention of her?”
Therein lies the rub. That, coupled with her ending up in my dining room, says this wasn’t a happily ever after for anyone.
I chew on my lower lip, thinking it over. “Okay. So the duke and duchess had three sons. All of them would have been the right age at the right time to be the competing love interests. We know for certain that the heir, Lawrence, didn’t marry a Josephine.”
“And so there were two,” Celeste finishes ominously.
I grin at her. “My guess is Josephine found herself in a love triangle with Robert and William and was finally made to choose between them. One brother died. Another disappeared. Compelling circumstances to erase her from the family tree.”
“She killed him.”
We all turn to Yvonne. It’s the first thing she’s said tonight since we sat down. She’s had her head buried in her phone without Nate to entertain her.
Despite my promise to myself, I’d felt a jolt of excitement at the sight of Yvonne approaching us at the door when we arrived.
Followed by bitter disappointment when she said Nate wasn’t coming.
“Killed who?” Lee asks, glancing over at her.
“The one who disappeared,” Yvonne hypothesizes. “She’d already planned it before the one who died asked her to marry him. But that would have ruined her plans to run off with the first one’s fortune, so she turned down the second and he left England with a broken heart, only to perish at sea. Thanks to her, the duke and duchess lost two out of three sons. Hence Josephine never made it to the family history.”
It’s not the worst theory. But not all that likely either.
“I think it’s romantic,” Celeste interjects. “Not the murder part.”
“Romance is dead,” Lee responds bitterly.
“Oh no, mate.” Jamie throws his arm around Lee’s shoulder. “We didn’t like Third George?”
“It’s Bi-Curious George,” I correct, and Yvonne laughs.
“Brilliant,” she says in approval.
Lee heaves a sigh. “No, just another same old George. He decided the cock wasn’t for him. And now I’m once again left bereft without a soulmate in sight.”
“Maybe if you stopped searching for your soulmate on a hookup app.” Celeste aims a pointed glare at her twin.
“Oh God, no.” He smirks. “I am exactly that bitch. Anyway, I’ve a date tomorrow.”
“Long live romance.” Jamie holds his glass up, then takes a drink.
Lee winks at me. “His name’s George.”
“Seriously?” I demand.
“No, but how wild would that be? This one’s called Freddie. He claims to be a proper gentleman with a penchant for romance and spoiling his lovers.”
“Nah, mate, he only used that romance line to get in your knickers,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes.
“Jamie.” Celeste tilts her head toward him. “Tell us, what’s the most romantic thing you’ve done for a girlfriend?”
“Ha!” Jack smacks a hand on the table, rattling our drinks. “Lord Kent sends them home with a gift bag of tiny soaps and a photo of himself.”
Jamie cracks a smile. “What he said.”
Celeste waves them off. “You’re both pigs. On our first date, Roberto got us into the National Gallery after hours and arranged for a screening of my favorite movie in the Sunley Room.”
“What’s your favorite movie?” I ask.
“Center Stage,” she says like I should have known.
“That’s not romance.” Lee’s pint glass is empty, so he helps himself to Jamie’s. “Staying up all night until your partner vomits up their grandmother’s gold cross pendant when you’d told them if they kept sucking on that thing, one day they’d swallow it—that’s romance.”
I cover my mouth when an involuntary gag reflex threatens to spew pinot grigio all over the table. “That’s nasty.”
“What about Nate?” Celeste asks Yvonne.
She sighs in answer. “He’s not the romantic type.”
“You mean he’s never penned you a love song or recited poetry in your ear late at night?” Lee says mockingly.
“Afraid not.” She smooths a hand over her sleek blond hair before reaching for her drink.
“Ever brought you flowers at least?” Celeste presses.
Yvonne shakes her head. “Not Nate’s style.”
It’s awful, but a tiny, petty part of me is happy to hear Nate hasn’t made any grand romantic gestures for Yvonne.
“Go on then.” Jamie prods at Jack. “Your turn.”
Jack shrugs. “Romance? Mate, I’ve never even brought a girl home. I think I gave one a carnation for Valentine’s in primary school once.”
I don’t have anything to add to the romance discussion. My one “adult” relationship consisted mostly of hooking up in his dorm room between study breaks. Living at home with a scarily overprotective parent meant no sleepovers, and our dates were less romantic outings than group hangs at the movies or the grill on campus. I don’t even remember if he got me a birthday present.
Later, on our way home, I’m yet again crammed in the back seat of a cab with Jack to one side and Jamie asleep on the other. We hit a pothole that doesn’t rouse him from his content snoring.
“You really never brought a girl home?” I ask Jack, because I’m feeling bold and a bit tipsy. “Like ever?”
“Like ever,” he imitates with a smile.
“But you dated, right?”
“Sure. Dated around in high school. And there was one girl I was steady with. It’s a different thing, though, to take ’em home to Mum.”
“Is what someone might say when they have commitment issues,” I tease.
“You’re not the first to say that.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
He offers an adorable shrug that bumps my shoulder. “I’d have to be head over heels for someone to introduce them to Mum. I wouldn’t put any woman through that level of cross-examination unless I thought she was the one.”
I laugh. “Your mom’s a tough critic, huh?”
“The toughest.”
“Are you guys close?”
“Ay. She raised us by herself after Dad died.” Jack’s careful to keep his voice down for the sleeping Jamie, who I think might be drooling on my shoulder. “Five kids all on her own, and we weren’t an easy lot, you know. Still aren’t.” A sheepish smile flashes in the passing streetlights.
“It’s just my dad and me too. But I don’t think I’ve been much trouble at all. It’s disgusting how good I am at following the rules.”
He snickers. “Let’s not brag about that, shall we?”
“What about your siblings?” I ask curiously. “You said some of them were older? Are they married?”
“Shannon’s eighteen, with a boyfriend I’ve a feeling she’ll ditch after graduation. Oliver’s a year younger than me and single. Charlie’s twenty-three, so two years older. Also single. Noah’s the oldest at twenty-five. He has a girlfriend—Bree. Ah, God, she’s fucking awful. That’s shitty of me to say, but she treats him like a pet. Everything he does. Like telling him what to eat, what to wear. He has to ask permission to have a beer.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Last Christmas, Mum handed him a piece of pie, and his girlfriend starts in on him about how he’s put on a few pounds.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Mind you, my brother has, like, six percent body fat. The bloke’s lips have abs.”
I laugh at the hint of jealousy in Jack’s voice. The competition in that family must be on another level.
“Mum hates her.”
I absorb all the information he gave me, realizing that despite having lived together for two months, this is the first time Jack has offered a more in-depth look at his family life. Before tonight, all I knew about him was that he has some siblings and likes rugby, going to the pub, and walking around shirtless. And that his favorite meal of the day is breakfast, or brekky as he calls it, which never fails to make me laugh.
Not that he told me his whole life story just now, but hey, it’s something. The problem is it’s whetted my appetite. I’m hungry for more.
Sadly, more talking is not in the cards for this cab ride. Jack leans closer, and suddenly there’s another drunk man using my shoulder as a pillow.
“Wake me when we get there?” he mumbles.
“Sure,” I say, ignoring the quickening of my pulse.
The feel of him draped on me, warm and muscular, is downright butterfly inducing.
Lee would not approve.
