“But if you were married…” He sighed. “Jo, I would worry so much less.”

“I know.”

The soft pang in her chest was not only from the tuberculosis that plagued her. For though Josephine Shaw was a practical woman, she also had the fiery heart of a romantic. It wasn’t that she’d never longed for love. She had. When she was younger, she’d longed most desperately! But she’d known by the age of twenty-three that her health was becoming more and more fragile. And by twenty-five that the doctors’ treatments would not save her life. It seemed cruel to hope for any happiness besides her own small fancies.

She wrote her stories, and they were read and enjoyed—or so Lenore claimed—by many. Josephine enjoyed quiet society and music and books and gardening. She loved her father to distraction.

It was with that love in mind that she took his hand. “Father, I promise I will be fine.”

She tried to ignore the tears in the corners of his eyes when he squeezed her hand tightly.

“You deserve much more than ‘fine,’ my dear girl. You deserve a love like your mother and I had. I only had her for four years, but it has been enough to sustain me for twenty-nine.”

“And do you think I will find love in an arranged marriage?” She had to smile. “You cannot make a young man love me because you do. I do not think that is the way love works.”

“If he only meets you, he will have to love you.”

“Oh, Papa!” Josephine laughed harder, and she couldn’t stop the cough that followed. She muffled it in the handkerchief Lenore had embroidered for her. No blood—thank God—yet. “I think you are biased in my favor, but I will take the compliment. Surely Mr. Murphy will love me on sight. But shall I love him? This young man who would agree to a marriage to seal a business deal for his brother? No doubt he sees in our marriage a way to make his own fortune. Not that I begrudge ambition, but it doesn’t lend itself to romance, does it?”

Shaw looked thoughtful. “If it was Declan Murphy, I might say you have the right of it, my dear. But it is not. Mr. Thomas Murphy, the oldest of the brothers, has offered for you.”

“The oldest, is it?” Josephine quipped. “Well then, I might have a chance to outlive him after all.”

Her father was abashed. “Not as old as that. But he is… a mature man. Perhaps in his forties. Not overly talkative. Not a pretty fellow at all, I suppose. Though I’ve noticed the serving girls all take note of him.“

Josephine nodded solemnly. “I do bow to the measured opinion of observant serving girls when I consider suitors.”

Shaw let go of her hand and leaned back, crossing his legs and brushing a hand over his trouser leg. “You’re teasing your father.”

She smiled. “It’s just so silly. Why do I have need of a husband?”

“To protect you.”

“I can protect myself. Or set the dogs on the marauders if they ignore my shrill and desperate cries.”

His lips twitched with a smile. “To make you happy.”

“You have no guarantee this Thomas Murphy is capable of that.”

“Fine.” He took her hand again. “To give your poor papa a measure of peace that I will leave you secure. I don’t have long, Jo. I know that. If the Tetleys lived in Dublin, I would have no worry in your situation, for I know Margaret and Daniel love you as their own. But they do not live here, and you are not well enough to travel so far. All I am asking is that you give this man a chance to win your regard.”

Josephine paused, persuaded by her father’s worried pleas. “Very well, I will meet him.”

“That is all I am asking.”

“But if he thinks this union is somehow assured—”

“Mr. Murphy specifically said he would have you only if you would have him. He was quite clear that any kind of coercion on my part was unacceptable.”

“Oh.” That was… rather thoughtful. “I appreciate his regard in that matter.”

“Meet him, Jo. You never know. Thomas Murphy may not be one of your romance heroes, but you might find him far more to your liking than you expect.”

My dearest Miss Tetley,

You will be most astonished to find not only the pages of Mr. Doyle’s latest horror enclosed, but also news of an even more alarming nature.

Father has found a gentleman to marry me!

I know you will be as dismayed as I am, dear Lenore. For herein lies the ruin of our plans in joint spinsterhood. I doubt my domineering (for surely he must be very domineering) future husband will consent to our scandalous plans to run away to the seaside and live out our lives wearing pantaloons.

Alas, no doubt the rogue will lock me in a tower or an attic until I wither away from disappointed love. With my fortune, he will have ample funds to find an appropriate tower or attic within easy distance of town as he is also a man of business and must surely not neglect his familial responsibilities.

I jest, of course. I have only allowed that I will meet Mr. Thomas Murphy, and Father has made every concession to my consent in the matter. I have no cause to presume lack of character in the gentleman, though the housemaids have rumored a rather hopeful and frightening scar on one side of his face. Further portent of illicit intent? Or perhaps a mere carriage accident in childhood? You know which one I would prefer, of course.

Father’s health continues to fail. He is wracked with worry, which is the only reason I have consented to meet Mr. Murphy. I very much doubt a sick spinster of eight and twenty will tempt him, but as he has given his word to offer, it seems the engagement is mine to refuse. I will determine the truth in the man’s face and decide my course. If he is a kind sort of man whose company I could endure, perhaps the engagement will give Father some comfort and me some amusement.