A FEW DAYS LATER, I’M BACK IN THE LIBRARY. FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A long time, I’m working on a paper that isn’t about Josephine or those damned interminable Tulleys, and it’s a nice palate cleanser. Just a standard literary theory and criticism essay I can otherwise do in my sleep.
From my seat near the entrance to the archives and Mr. Baxley’s fortress, I spy him approaching me out of the corner of my eye.
Stiffly, as if afraid to be seen speaking to me, he stands beside the table.
“Was my typing too loud?” I ask with a grin.
“You’ll not be requesting access to the special sections today?”
I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed someone fail so hard at trying to act casual.
I set my laptop aside. “So you did miss me.”
“Am I to conclude you’ve completed your research then?”
He looks like he’s in pain, like the effort of engaging in human contact is almost too agonizing to endure. I worry for his health if he attempts to keep this up. It’s sort of sweet, though. I had no idea he cared so much.
“Not really, no. Without more clues to chase down, I don’t think there’s anything else in this building that can help me.”
“Is that right?” The mask slips, an expression of concern overtaking his usual scowl of contempt. “That’s unfortunate.”
With my foot, I push out a chair for him to join me.
Several beats tick by.
Just when I’ve given up, Mr. Baxley sits down. While still letting me know with his eyes drifting elsewhere that he’s only half interested in this conversation.
“I was able to find out that Robert and William Tulley were at odds right before the Victoria sinking,” I tell him. “I don’t know about what, but the hidden letter from Josephine about being torn between two men would absolutely be a motive for a falling-out between the brothers. I still have no idea if William was alone when he boarded the ship, as he was added to the passenger list at the last minute. I managed to locate the office where all the records for the Northern Star Line are archived—that’s the shipping company that owned the Victoria. A clerk there is trying to track down any documents related to the ship that haven’t been donated to museums. Maybe those will shed light on whether Josephine was ever on that boat.”
“And the eldest Tulley?”
“There’s speculation that Robert’s disappearance was him running off to Ireland under an assumed name. Whether that was to hide his new bride or to escape the loss of his love to his own brother, who knows? Or maybe,” I say and offer a wry smile, “I’ve concocted this entire story in my head and none of it has anything to do with anything.”
“I see” is his enigmatic response.
“If I had a shrink, they’d tell me I’m projecting, right? Two elusive men fighting over the same woman. A little art imitating life?”
Mr. Baxley responds with a questioning look.
“Okay, so there’s these guys. And they both say they’re into me. But they don’t want to be with me. Or can’t. Depending on what you believe.”
I have no earthly right unloading on this poor man. Except that I have few other people to unleash my thoughts on, and once I get going, the release is so satisfying I can’t stop midstream.
“But then how much can they really like me, right? I mean, if you want something bad enough, you give up the family titles and fortune to move to Ireland and change your name. You cross an ocean with nothing but the clothes on your back. You definitely don’t kiss her and then say, ‘Let’s just be friends.’ That’s a dick move.”
Mr. Baxley stares at me. He all but shrinks behind his glasses, his chin receding into his neck. A man inexplicably pinned to his chair despite every fiber of his being screaming to run from this oversharing girl.
“I didn’t get off the plane looking to date my way through London, you know? A love interest wasn’t anywhere on my list of priorities. And now I have two. And they’re both so wishy-washy my head is spinning.” I heave a dramatic sigh, not unlike one Lee would bestow on someone. “But this is my fate now, I guess. To be desired but not enough. An ornament on a shelf they want to pull down and play with when it’s convenient. These men. What did a girl ever do to deserve them, Mr. Baxley?”
My phone buzzes on the table.
Nate: We need to talk.
“See?” I flash the phone at Mr. Baxley, who sits flustered and unmoving across the table. I’m not sure he’s breathing. “This shit. Sorry. But seriously, what do we have to talk about? You have a girlfriend, bro.”
I tap out a quick response.
Me: No we don’t.
Mr. Baxley clears his throat and hastily rises to his feet. “Yes, well. Good luck with your research.”
Men.
Nate: Please?
Me: You still have a girlfriend, and that’s a deal-breaker for me.
I might be attracted to Nate, but my self-esteem isn’t so battered that I’m going to be that girl. Especially not for the bass player with the soulful eyes. I’m no one’s cliché.
The phone buzzes again.
I’m about to chuck it across the room when I realize this text is from Ben Tulley. It’s the first time he’s made contact since the ball, although he did mention business abroad. I figured he’d be in touch if or when he had news. It seems now he does.
Ben: Abbey, darling. I brought some homework along while I’ve been in Ibiza and found a few things that should prove useful. I’ve taken the liberty of having them shipped ahead of me. Sophie will be reaching out xx
Within seconds, a second message pops up from an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: This is Sophie Brown, Lord Tulley’s assistant. Expect a package this evening by courier. Should be delivered in the next hour or so. Please contact me if you’ve not received it by 8 p.m.
The news fills me with a jolt of renewed vigor. Without Josephine to keep my mind occupied, I’ve been left to wallow in my own dissatisfaction.
I wasn’t aware how much I needed to solve the puzzle of Josephine until now, and not only for a grade. So I rush to pack up my things and run out of the library to catch the Tube home. Standing in the train car, jittery for a fix, I know I’m addicted. Right when I think I’ve cleansed the mystery from my system, the itch rears its head. Despite the numerous disappointments, Josephine is still the most satisfying part of my life these days.
When I get home, I’m met with the warm smell of tikka masala and what sounds like a live stadium inside our house. I drop my stuff in the foyer and follow the uproar to find Lee at the stove with most of Jack’s rugby team crammed in our kitchen. The last time they were all here, they nearly tore the place down to the studs.
“Hey!” they shout as I walk in.
A chant like a garbled English drinking song I can’t decipher goes around the room. After these boys have had a few drinks in them, I can’t understand a word they say.
“Gentlemen,” I say in greeting. “Save me some?”
“Make room, you lot.” Jack shoves biceps to clear the way for me at the counter. “All right, Abbs?”
“Yeah, good. Thanks.”
His smile still does me in. The glint in his eye that I swear is just for me. In other words, that thing he prefers to ignore but can’t deny when we kiss. Call it inherent chemistry, I guess.
It’s infuriating.
“They were about to start chewing on the doorjambs.” Lee flits about the kitchen in his apron. Mixing bowls, cutting boards, and spice jars cover every inch of surface space. “I swear I saw one of them with a paper towel roll between his teeth.”
“They were this close to cooking that damn cat.” Jack laughs.
“What do you say, dollface?” One of Jack’s teammates with a nasty red welt under his eye sidles up beside me. “Make us a sandwich while we’re waiting. Some roast beef on rye? Or sourdough if you’ve got it.”
The guys get a good chuckle at my expense.
“You ever find a girl that works on, marry her,” I advise him.
“He tried,” another one says. “But his mum’s already married to his dad.”
They go on like that until Lee fixes me a plate of food that I take into the living room to get a little elbow room and wait for my package.
I’ve just finished eating when the doorbell rings. I waste no time jumping off the couch to answer the door. The young man on the stoop asks me to sign for the heavy cardboard box, which I drag inside and then force Lee to carry upstairs for me.
In my room, we find Hugh snuggled up on my bed against my pillows.
Lee barely glances at his cat. “Let me know if you need anything else, babe,” he says absently. “I’ll be in the loo getting ready for my date with Eric.”
“Sorry, bud,” I tell Hugh, who’s staring at the empty doorway. “You’re simply not a priority for him.”
Lee’s entirely lost interest in the cat after barely a week. If the Lord of Cats asks, however, Hugh is the light of Lee’s life. The reason for being.
Poor thing.
I grab a pair of scissors from my desk drawer to crack into this box. Inside is a lidded file box containing loose pages, folders, and yellow envelopes. At first, it’s all nonsense. Fragments of stuff I don’t understand. I pull everything out and start making piles based on names and dates, trying to apply some order to it all.
A bound ledger is the last thing at the bottom of the box. It appears to be an accounting of household expenses for the year, dated 1951. Something the head of the Tulleys’ house staff would have kept, containing weekly entries for the butcher and florist, that sort of thing. I skim the rows until I find the names of staff with their weekly salaries.
And there, on line nineteen, is Josephine.
I’m in utter disbelief to see her there on the page.
“Lee!” I holler at the doorway. “Lee, get in here!”
He comes barreling in a few seconds later, a green hydration mask slathered on his face and worry flickering in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” He glances around my bedroom until his betrayed gaze lands on Hugh. “What did you do to her, you bloody demon!”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m good. Hugh only likes to assault you. But check this out!” I thrust out the ledger. “I found her! Her name is Josephine Farnham! She was a maid to the duchess.”
“Brilliant.” He looks genuinely pleased. Everyone in the house has been invested in this mystery from the start. “And what of her fate?”
“Well, I haven’t figured that part out yet. But at least we have confirmation that she was connected to the Tulleys.”
“The young maid who caught the eye of two young lords,” Lee says dramatically. “I adore it. I’ll be telling Eric all about this on our date tonight. Speaking of which…this mask won’t be removing itself.”
With that, he bounds off.
I spend the next several hours meticulously combing through every scrap of paper in the box. And it’s a veritable treasure trove. I feel like one of those people who open abandoned storage lockers and find gold pirate coins and furniture that belonged to Marie Antoinette.
There’s a letter from the duchess to Robert, which in not so subtle language tells him to get his shit together. He’s supposed to marry a princess, and she isn’t interested in his objections or preoccupations with the maid. If it becomes necessary, she threatens to fire Josephine and send her to work elsewhere.
Deeper in the stacks, I locate a black-and-white photograph of the household staff posed in front of the estate in Surrey. It’s grainy and worn with the years, but a close examination finds the tall thin woman with dark hair and fragile cheekbones at the end of the second row. And either I’m imagining it, or she’s sporting a tiny smirk of mischief.
It’s Josephine. I’m sure of it. But not quite the same Josephine from the Dyce portrait. That one was distracted, sad almost. This girl in the staff photo has a lot more life in her.
I flip over the photograph and glimpse the date. It was taken a little more than a year before the Victoria sinking. Had Josephine fallen for either lord at this point? Maybe just one, and that’s why she’s so happy? New love and all. And then, by the time she posed for Dyce, she was entangled in a full-blown love triangle and riddled with turmoil?
So many questions.
Hugh paws at me from the bed while I sit on the floor. He starts tugging strands of my hair with his claws, tapping at my shoulder. I absently rub his ear while perusing pages until I find an invoice signed by William Tulley.
In the matter of a portrait commission, he agrees to pay Franklin Astor Dyce three hundred pounds.
Finally, proof.
This has to be Josephine’s portrait. It would be way too big a coincidence to believe Robert had fallen in love with some other maid at the same time William commissioned a portrait that wasn’t my painting.
I am now fairly confident in saying that Robert and William both had the hots for Josephine.
“So which one did she choose?” I ask Hugh.
The cat blinks at me, bored.
Damn it. This mystery is maddening.
Would William have hidden Josephine’s rejection letter in the painting after she eloped to Ireland with Robert?
Or was she lost at sea among the victims of the Victoria, leaving Robert with nothing but a brief parting note and the forgotten portrait?
I don’t get the chance to let my mind muse over the possibilities, because the doorbell rings. Twice. Then a third time. A couple hours ago, I heard the stampede that was the boys going out for the night, so I haul myself up and head downstairs.
I open the front door to find Nate standing under the porch light.
