Page 35 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
“They lie,” Tabby ground out.
Mrs. Bishop looked between them. “I don’t pretend to be well acquainted with Miss Cooke, but from the time we have spent together I can say that she is one of the most levelheaded young women I have met. She might be a little unpolished, but she is no simpleton.”
“And how do we know you aren’t just another charlatan?” the same woman asked again as she looked Tabby up and down. “Can you offer us any proof that Mrs. Bellefonte is a fraud? Or that you are not?”
She had known that this was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. “I can, on both counts.” Turning to one of the women, she said: “Your husband, Henry, was a banker. He worked long hours and was often away from home. But he loved you dearly, and he says that you broke his heart when you carried on with his brother.”
The woman gasped, but Tabby was already moving on. “Mrs. Orson, your son was killed after taking too much drink and trying to rob a bank with nothing more than a pocket knife.”
Mrs. Orson sniffed. “Anyone could know that. It was in the papers. It doesn’t prove anything.”
Tabby bit back a retort. How easy it was for everyone to believe her aunt’s smooth and palatable lies, but when faced with the truth, they balked. “He says that it was your idea to rob the bank, that you wanted the money to start a new life in California, and that he will never forgive you.”
At this, Mrs. Orson went very pale, and slumped down into her seat. Tabby turned to a quiet older woman who was still seated, her hands demurely crossed on the head of her cane.
“Mrs. Sprague,” she said softly, coming and kneeling at the woman’s feet. “Jenny wants you to know that there was no pain at the end, that she knows you did everything you could for her. Though she was only a babe, she loved you so much, and was so glad that you were her mother.”
A dry sob broke from Mrs. Sprague’s throat. “It’s been forty years since I lost my Jenny, and I think of her every day. I always wondered if there was something I could have done differently, something that would have saved her from that fever.”
Tabby shook her head, trying to contain her own welling emotion. “Nothing,” she said. “There was nothing you could have done differently. You loved her and she says that was enough.”
There was taut silence as the other women watched Tabby and Mrs. Sprague, and then an explosion of clamoring voices.
“Me next!”
“No, me!”
Throughout all this, Tabby was only vaguely aware of her aunt and uncle taking their leave, slinking away like the snakes they were. She had no doubt that they would be back, now that they knew where she was, but for now, they couldn’t show their faces here again.
When at last everyone who had clamored for a message had been satisfied, Tabby turned to Mrs. Bishop. Sustained contact with so many on the other side had left her exhausted and weak, but she was determined to put Mrs. Bishop’s fears to rest. “Caleb is not dead.”
Mrs. Bishop let out a gasp and would have collapsed if not for the lady next to her catching her by the arm. “Where is he? I would give anything to see him again, to hold him. I know in my heart that he is innocent.”
Tabby looked at her feet and shook her head. “I wish I knew, I’m sorry. I only know that he is alive. He is a clever man, though, and I’m sure wherever he is, he’s thriving.” She did not have to lie or sweeten her words; they were the truth.
“I miss him so much,” Mrs. Bishop said softly.
“I miss him, too.” She hadn’t even realized it until the words slipped out. For as much as the young man had confounded her, she found herself missing him with an intensity that rivaled the loss she felt for her sister. She hated that she missed him, especially after he had accused her of lying, but she did. She missed the appreciative glimmer in his eye when she said something clever. She missed his quick smile that was no less special for its frequency. She even missed his cocky banter.
But now was not the time to mine the depths of her heart. No sooner had she given her message to Mrs. Bishop than the parlor door was opening and Larson was clearing his throat expectantly.
“Madame, Mr. Whitby is here. Should I tell him you’re busy?”
Tabby froze. She shot a pleading look to Mrs. Bishop, but of course the older woman had no clue what had transpired between Tabby and him, and so the urgency of the situation was lost on her.
Mrs. Bishop gave a heavy sigh. “No, that won’t be necessary. The séance is concluded, I suppose, and he may be here with news about Caleb.”
Panicked, Tabby darted her gaze around the room, looking for a way out. If she moved fast, she might be able to slip out the servant’s entrance and into the back hall.
“I—I have to go,” Tabby mumbled. But as she started for the door, she was waylaid by the gaggle of women.
“Miss Cooke, I’m hosting a party Tuesday next, and I simplymusthave you there to perform a séance.”
“How much do you charge for a sitting?”
“Do you offer private sittings? I have a question for a spirit, but it is of a delicate nature.”
Bombazine skirts pressed in around Tabby, feathered fans snapping open and shut as the women all pleaded for her attention.
