Page 11 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
“Please,” she said, twisting out of his grasp, “it doesn’t matter how I know of them. I only wanted to help you, but now I see I shouldn’t have bothered.”
Her answer didn’t satisfy him, but as he took her by the shoulders, studying the bitter disappointment, the earnestness on her face, he realized that he really didn’t give a damn how she had found out. Someone had wanted to help him. For the first time since his father died, he didn’t feel so utterly adrift. In fact, he felt rather calm and drowsy with the thin wool of her dress under his fingertips, and the sunlight cradling them in a hazy embrace.
“Mr. Bishop?”
Her tremulous voice tugged him out of his thoughts and when he looked down, he realized that he was still grasping her by the shoulders. He relaxed his grip, but just a little. She was looking up at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes searching his. What did the world look like through those incredible eyes of hers? Did she see a foolish young man when she looked at him? Or something more? Did she feel the same inexplicable desire burning deep within her belly when they stood close?
Before he knew what he was doing, he murmured, “I think I will kiss you now.”
She surely hadn’t heard him right. Why on earth would he want to kiss her, here, now? His father’s body had been stolen, the grave violated. And never mind that he had already told her he was an engaged man. But then he was leaning in toward her, the trajectory of his lips unmistakable.
She knew that it was wrong, for so many reasons, but she was helpless to stop herself as her mouth parted and she went boneless in his arms. She’d never been kissed before, and the temptation to experience this strange and wonderful phenomenon for herself was too strong to resist. Then he was deepening the kiss, pulling her against the length of him as she automatically twined her hands behind his neck.
It was glorious. Parts of her she didn’t even know existed flared to life, her body flooding with warmth under his fingertips. There, amongst the carved death’s heads and rasping crows, she felt more alive than she ever had before.
But then reality came rushing back. What was she doing? The girl with the calloused heart didn’t fall into the arms of handsome young men. The girl with the curse of talking to the dead most certainly didn’t partake in such intimate gestures. And he wasengaged, the cad.
She pulled back and, before she could think twice, slapped him clean across his cheek, the force smarting her palm. She’d never struck someone before. Reeling back, he gave a yelp.
She shouldn’t have hit him—it had been more to make herself stop than him—but he didn’t look angry or even surprised, only slightly sheepish, breathing heavily as if awakening from a dream.
“I suppose I had that coming,” he said with a crooked grin, and Tabby got the impression that this was not the first time he had found himself on the receiving end of a blow from a woman. But then his face darkened and his expression grew serious. “I’m sorry. I... I must be off. I shouldn’t be here with you...doing this.”
He was right, but the sudden sting of rejection hurt more than it had any right to. She watched him stride away, his gait still confident but unmistakably hurried, as if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough.
Had that really just happened? She ran her tongue over her lips, reveling in the lingering taste of him. He had been so easy to talk to, and the fact that she had spoken to his father had just slipped out. How could she be so careless? All it had taken was one lopsided smile from him, one electric look from his probing eyes, and she had been ready to let all her secrets fly from her like birds from a dovecote. He was probably used to women spilling their secrets to him—he was clearly no stranger to kissing—but what would he have thought of her if she had told him the truth about how she had learned of the ledgers? At best, he would think her a charlatan after money from the grieving. At worst he would think her an aberration. It didn’t matter either way, she reminded herself bitterly; he was not for her.
Hastily gathering up her broom and pan, she finished cleaning up the debris around the tomb. It had been her first kiss, and it certainly would be her last.
If Miss Suze had a surname or indeed any other name, Tabby didn’t know it. Everyone from her own children to grandchildren simply called her Miss Suze. It was an endearment, a mark of deference. And though she was small of stature, Miss Suze commanded respect. A passionate abolitionist and active member of the church, no one of importance passed through Boston without sitting at Miss Suze’s table and partaking in her legendary cooking and a lively debate. She could boast of having hosted everyone from Frederick Douglass to William Lloyd Garrison to Maria Chapman, earning her frequent mentions in the Bostonemancipation newspaper theLiberator.So when Miss Suze’s invitation arrived, Tabby had been quick to convince Eli to accept, knowing that it would go a long way to cheer him up from the robbery of the previous day.
Miss Suze lived in a modest, yet homey row house in the fashionable Back Bay enclave of Boston. With pink chintz wallpaper and cheery vases of flowers throughout the house, it seemed a thousand miles from the shabby rooms that Tabby and Eli rented. Every chair that was pulled up around the table was worn and comfortable. Children’s footsteps pounded up and down the hall, adults halfheartedly admonishing them for being too rowdy. Tabby’s elbows brushed against her neighbors on both sides as she hungrily spooned up Miss Suze’s okra stew, the lively conversation flowing around her.
“Homer and Mary are coming by with the twins later,” Miss Suze said as she set down a steaming plate of hoecakes. “You won’t believe your eyes when you see how those boys have grown,” she told Eli. “Gonna be tall like their daddy.”
Polly, Miss Suze’s eldest granddaughter, reached for a hoecake. “You know he puts cork in his shoes, don’t you? He can barely see over the pew in front of him at church.”
“Tch, you’re just jealous ’cause you were born runty,” rejoined a cousin or grandchild that Tabby didn’t recognize.
“Was not! Pa, tell him I wasn’t a runt,” Polly implored her father.
“Oh no, I ain’t getting involved.” A neatly dressed man with lively eyes, Paul was a clerk in a law firm in the city. He diplomatically changed the subject. “Miss Suze, these hoecakes might be your best yet.”
“You can thank Lemuel for those. He bought the cornmeal.”
“You didn’t go to Pratt’s, did you? He always skims off the top.”
Lemuel ducked his head.
“Lemmy is sweet on Isabelle Pratt,” Polly piped up. “Ow! Why’d you kick me?”
Tabby was so fascinated by the back and forth of the siblings, that she almost didn’t notice the little girl with braids that had crept up beside her chair.
“Tabby, will you play dollies with me?”
Tabby looked down to find little Ella with a collection of well-loved ragdolls. A shy girl of seven, Ella had always been Tabby’s favorite of Miss Suze’s grandchildren. She smiled. “I don’t know how to play dollies, you’ll have to show me.”
Ella reached out to take her hand, but as Tabby pushed back her chair and stood, she felt her balance shift, as if the floor under her had tilted. Light-headed, she put her hand out to steady herself on the table.
