Page 22 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
Passing through the dining room, he grabbed a slice of toast and tiptoed behind his mother, who was absorbed in her lady’s journal as she ate her breakfast. But the woman had the preternatural hearing of a cat, and turned in her chair.
“Caleb! Goodness, you gave me a fright, sneaking around like that. Come, sit down and have a proper breakfast with me.”
He could have insisted that he had business to attend to, but the hopefulness and vulnerability in his mother’s eyes was so palpable that he simply nodded, taking a plate from the sideboard and filling it with eggs and sausages before sliding into his seat. He found he had missed the old dear, her comforting chatter and even the gossip about the other ladies in her circle. The club would still be there after breakfast. “Pass me theGazette,would you?” He could at least see what had been happening in the world while he had been stagnating in prison.
She obliged, but not without a littlehumphas he spread it before him. He knew he was not being the doting son she had missed while he was gone, but he hadn’t the energy to cosset her, not when he’d only just begun to feel human again. For now, breakfast would have to be enough.
Buttermilk twined around his legs, and he absently scratched his head beneath the table. His gaze roamed down the page, skimming headlines about slave rebellions, cotton prices, and oil deposits, and stopping when he came to the small headline tucked in the corner of the page. “Resurrection men strike again: Have we returned to the dark days of dissection?”Quickly folding the page, he slipped it into his pocket while his mother was distracted buttering her toast. Caleb had somehow managed to keep the fate of her husband’s body from her so far, and he would be damned if she found out now. If only the police spent more time investigating the theft of his father’s person, and less time throwing innocent men into jail.
Pushing back his chair, Caleb downed the rest of his coffee and stood up. “Breakfast has been lovely, but I really must be going.”
“Where are you off to anyhow this morning? You’ve barely had a chance to rest after...your ordeal.”
He didn’t tell her that he was starving for the touch of another person, that he craved distraction, and if he happened to run into Miss Cooke on the way to the club and set her straight, well, so much the better. Over the last few days his annoyance with her strange behavior had faded, and all he felt was a deep sense of gratitude that she had cared enough to try to help him. “Whitby wants me at the office to sign some papers.”
She gave a sigh. “Good, dear Mr. Whitby. What would we do without him?” Her eyes got a hazy faraway look in them that all but declared that her mourning period for his father was already drawing to a close. She was still a handsome woman despite her years, with a lively demeanor and spades of affection left to give; why shouldn’t she turn her eye to the future and the possibility of happiness and stability? After decades with the monster who had been his father, could he really blame her?
But there was something off-putting about Whitby, and he couldn’t help but feel her affection would be better placed somewhere else.
Caleb was over halfway to the club when guilt overtook him. Not just that he’d lied to his mother about where he was going, but that he could even think of playing cards or enjoying the company of a woman when Rose was barely cold in her grave. An uncomfortable but familiar sense of self-loathing bubbled up within him. Didn’t vain men like him usually learn some sort of profound lesson after finding themselves on the wrong side of a set of iron bars? He might still be the same vain man he always was, but he could at least try to play the dutiful son. Giving a deep sigh, he doubled back and headed toward Whitby’s office.
He had just crossed the square when he stopped short at the sight of a young woman with red hair peering at Whitby’s office from behind a tree. Well, let no one claim that he hadn’t tried to avoid her; she was the one who had crossed his path. He came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
Spinning around, Tabby Cooke looked as if she’d seen a ghost. “Oh, it’s you! You’re out of prison!”
Unable to help himself, he grinned at her guileless enthusiasm. “It is me, in the flesh. Now that we’ve established that, perhaps I might ask what you’re doing hiding behind a tree?”
Pink touched her cheeks, and he could tell she was trying very hard to look dignified despite the compromising position in which he’d found her. Not meeting his eye, she mumbled something he couldn’t quite catch.
“You’ll have to speak up.”
She gave him a peeved look. “I—I’m here to see Mr. Whitby. I’m just a little early, is all.”
He coughed until he nearly choked. Regaining himself, he was only able to murmur, “Is that so?”
She nodded, still not meeting his eye. Goodness, when had she become acquainted with Mr. Whitby? She’d claimed to have known his father as well as Rose, and now it seemed she was acquainted with his family’s solicitor. She really was the most peculiar creature. His question must have shown on his face, because she said, “He called while I was with your mother.”
Of course the little love had gone to visit his distraught mother. He could have swept her up in his arms and kissed her. He could have done a lot more than that too, but he remembered what had happened the last time he’d given in to his baser desires with her. Clearing his throat and trying not to look as intrigued as he felt, he asked, “And you’re here to see him because?”
“Because I don’t trust him,” she said simply.
“Why don’t you trust him?”
She gave a little shrug. “I couldn’t say exactly. It’s just a feeling I get.”
Caleb tilted his head, considering her. He might have dismissed her intuition out of hand, but the truth was, he got the same feeling from the cool and faultlessly polite Whitby. The man had been a fixture in their household since Caleb was a boy, a sharp, calculating man who quietly but firmly steered the business from behind the senior Mr. Bishop. Caleb had been just as surprised as Whitby when his father left him, Caleb, the business instead of to his trusted partner.
When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to elaborate on what had brought her here, he gave a sigh. “Look, I have business with Mr. Whitby and—No, don’t say it,” he stopped her as soon as she made a face. “Like him or not, he’s the best man to handle my situation. I may be a while, but please wait for me. We need to talk.”
“Well?”
Tabby hadn’t liked watching him disappear into the imposing brick building. She didn’t trust Mr. Whitby not to clamp the irons around Caleb’s wrists himself and drag him back to that filthy cell. But despite all her fears, he had emerged back into the sunshine with his usual devil-may-care swagger, winking at her as he caught her eye. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and chastised herself for so easily falling under his charming sway.
“Well what?”
She gave him an impatient look as he laced her arm through the crook of his elbow and led her away from the square. “What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing of great import.”
