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None of it seems to be of much relevance until she mentions bumping into a young man on the main deck after dinner. A young man who happened to be the middle son of her good friend, Duchess Tulley.
A young man called William Tulley.
Who was joined by his lovely young bride, Josephine.
They had just eloped and were setting off to America to begin a new life together.
I look at up at Mr. Baxley’s expectant smile.
“Eureka,” he says.
I rock backward, utterly winded by the discovery. I feel like someone swung a sledgehammer at my chest. Along with the elation of discovering who Josephine chose, I feel a sudden pang of loss. Heartbreak. Josephine followed William and his wanderlust across the ocean only to perish beneath the icy black waves. Their love was a tragedy, and they’d been driven to their deaths by class and circumstance. Rivalry and expectation. Cursed.
But maybe it’s also romantic. What little time they had together, they seized it, undeterred by the unknown. She and William left the safety of his wealth and everything she’d ever known for whatever trials lay west. They fled as a married couple, eager to meet the challenges of postwar America together, with their love and fortitude to guide them.
Yes, their young lives were cut short, but they left this earth together, and maybe that’s enough. It’s certainly more than a lot of people get.
And much more than many of us will ever attempt.
Mr. Baxley leads me out the door, back through the archives toward the main room.
“Is it the answer you hoped for?”
It’s the first thing he’s said since I finished reading the journal entry, as if he knew I needed time to absorb it all.
I inhale a slow, pensive breath. “Do you think she ever regretted her decision?”
He questions me over the rim of his glasses.
“When the water was pouring in over the side and filling the hallways. Do you think she wished she’d never heard the name Tulley?”
“I’d like to believe”—Mr. Baxley takes off his glasses and pulls a small handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe them—“in our final moments, we think of the people we love and what we leave behind. That it’s far too late for regrets.”
“Thank you, Mr. Baxley,” I tell this odd, serious, perceptive man who has become a friend. “For all your help.”
“My pleasure. I presume you have what you need?”
“I think so. Now I just need to write it all down.”
Which is the first thing I do when I get home an hour later. I’m still riding a high from the discovery, so pumped full of adrenaline that I race upstairs, grab my laptop, and start writing. My paper will finally have the resolution it so desperately needs. The closureIneed.
I update the last section, sourcing the journal entries from theVictoria, my thoughts flying out faster than my fingers can accommodate. I type like a madwoman, revealing Josephine and William Tulley’s ill-fated journey, the tragic ending to their love story.
After I hit Save, I stretch out my fingers and crack my knuckles, damn pleased with myself. I’m done.
No.
Fuck. Maybe I’m not done, I amend, suddenly remembering the emails I received earlier in the week from the shipping company and Ruby Farnham. I totally forgot to go over them.
Damn it.
“Lee,” I call out toward the hall. I can hear him puttering around in his bedroom.
“Yes, my love?”
“Can I send something to your printer? It’s…ah, looks to be about eighty pages. Is that okay? I’ll buy you a new box of paper tomorrow.”
“No problem. I’ll turn it on for you.”
