Page 23 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
His easy manner made strolling with him comfortable, familiar, and despite her natural instinct to pull away, she allowed her arm to stay snugly in his. He may have been acting like his usual self, but she didn’t for one moment believe that whatever had transpired between the two men could have been of no “great import,” not when she could feel him stiffen at her question.
“Here we are.” Caleb held the door open, and Tabby stepped inside. She had never been in a coffeehouse before, and the smell of roasting coffee beans and sweets wrapped around her, warm and comforting. Tables spread with white cloths dotted the cozy interior, the low hum of conversations and delicate clinking of china cups filling the space. Tabby discreetly folded her frayed sleeve cuffs under themselves.
As they made their way to an empty table near the window, Tabby noticed that all the other patrons had one thing in common. Leaning toward Caleb, she asked in a whisper, “Is this a ladies-only establishment?”
Ignoring her question, Caleb removed his hat and gave a short bow to a table of well-dressed women. “Ladies.”
An older woman in a silk bonnet put down her cup. “Why, Mr. Bishop, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months! Prudie said she saw you going into the Beacon Club—you haven’t forsaken us, have you?”
“Never,” he said, sweeping a low bow and planting a chivalrous kiss on the woman’s gloved hand. “Cards is all I’m after in there. I could never abandon your charming company, or your cause. If you’ll excuse me, though, I have promised my friend here a pot of coffee and some of your renowned delicacies.”
“Of course.” She craned her neck to get a look at Tabby and gave her a warm smile. “I do hope you both enjoy. You must try the buns—Mrs. Denny made them.”
When the woman had returned to her conversation with her friends, Tabby tugged Caleb’s sleeve. “What cause?” she asked him. “What is this place?”
“It’s a ladies’ suffrage club, and they practice temperance,” he finally replied as he pulled a chair out for her. “They run the coffeehouse, and use the proceeds to fund their work.”
“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I didn’t realize you were interested in women’s suffrage. Or temperance.”
He gave her a look. “I don’t take spirits,” he said without elaborating. “Here.” He handed her a little card that listed all the café’s offerings.
After Caleb had ordered them a pot of coffee and a heaping plate of Mrs. Denny’s sweet buns dripping with honey, Tabby broached her concerns again. “What did you and Mr. Whitby talk about? Would you tell me if you were in trouble?” She watched as he took a long sip of coffee as if he wasn’t going to answer. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
Sighing, he put his cup down and leaned back in his seat. “You’re a love for your concern, but I am a grown man capable of handling my own affairs. Just because you stumbled into this mess doesn’t mean you should be involved. Really, we hardly know each other.”
The bun she had been holding crumbled in her fingers. His words stung. Of course she didn’t have any claim over him, any right to know the first thing about his affairs. She hadn’t even known that he was a sober man, or that he frequented a women’s suffrage club for goodness’ sake. Yet she had thought he might at the very least see her as an ally, a friend.
His expression softened and he reached forward, patting her hand. “I know you mean well, and I appreciate it. But I have enough going on without worrying if you’re getting into trouble.”
She nodded, but a shiver of foreboding ran through her. He didn’t understand people the way she did. He didn’t know that sometimes the hand that reached out to help you was also the hand that could strike you the hardest.
Caleb saw Tabby safely home, and then turned back to his own house with leaden feet. Despite what he had told her, the meeting with Whitby had not gone particularly well. As he had worried, several investors had pulled their funding on finding out that the new owner was in prison awaiting trial on charges of murder. Even worse, Whitby had told him that the police did not have any other suspects for Rose’s murder. It looked as if he would have to stand trial, and hope for the mercy of a reasonable judge and jury.
“Well, how did it go?” His mother greeted him at the door, wringing her hands.
“Swimmingly, Mother,” he said with a quick peck on her cheek. “Couldn’t have gone better.”
She followed him into the drawing room as he shrugged off his coat and poured himself a glass of water. “Does that mean that the charges have been dropped? Is the business safe?”
Downing his drink, he closed his eyes and gathered himself. He didn’t like lying to his mother, but after a lifetime of safeguarding the woman’s nerves and protecting her from his father’s malice, he was surprisingly good at it. “We did lose an investor or two, but Whitby says all told that it could have been a lot worse. He’s optimistic that we’ll come out of this stronger than ever.”
The tightness in her face melted into relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Your father would turn over in his grave if the business was in trouble.”
Caleb inwardly winced at his mother’s choice of words.
“I just keep thinking about poor Rose,” she continued. “I do hope the police take the hunt for her murder seriously and not just bandy about ridiculous accusations. And you, my poor boy, I can’t help but worry for you.”
“For God’s sake, Mother, don’t waste your fears on me. I assure you they are entirely unfounded.”
Nevertheless, she gave a put-upon sigh. “To lose your father—your mentor!—and then your betrothed, and so close together... Well, I mourn for your broken heart.”
A stab of guilt ran through Caleb. Rose’s sudden death horrified him. Because he had only heard bits and pieces of how it happened, his imagination filled in the rest, and he had a very colorful imagination. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her sprawled on the floor, her limbs splayed like a broken doll in a pool of blood. But the horrible fact of the matter was he didn’t miss Rose as much as he should. Oh, he did miss her, but not in the way of a tortured lover. He missed her easy manner, and the proficient way she had of handling things. He missed the security and companionship that she would have provided, but his heart was stubbornly intact. And, well, he missed his father not at all.
“Caleb?”
He snapped from his thoughts, looking up to see his mother gazing at him with concern. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
She frowned. “Never mind.” Standing up, she gave a weary sigh. “I’m retiring for the night. Mind that you don’t stay up too late.”
