Page 37 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
Frost tinted the windows and a bleary September sun was just starting to climb into the sky when the younger Mr. Graham dropped the coins into Tabby’s hands and sent her on her way. They should have felt like hope, like satisfaction, but they only sat cold and heavy in her palm.
As she walked through the early-morning streets, Tabby pulled her cloak tighter around her, the coins clinking in her pocket. She should go tell Mary-Ruth that Mr. Graham was ready to be laid out and dressed, but she couldn’t bring herself to come back to reality and the world of preparations.
Mr. Graham’s last words burrowed into her gut like maggots, making her squirm. She had always thought that robbing a grave for the supposed sake of science was reprehensible, but this was worse, so much worse. She’d read serialized stories about mad scientists and desperate men who tried to bring the dead back to life, and while the stories had always been framed as ambitious and even romantic, she found them revolting. But they were just stories. This was real.
20
IN WHICH AN OPPORTUNITY IS WASTED.
FROM THE FOGGYcoffee shop window, Caleb watched the higgledy-piggledy buildings of London weep dark streaks in the rain, and pedestrians with black umbrellas hurry down the street. His vantage made him feel small, safe, and very, very lonely.
London was an old city, so much older than Boston, yet it felt new and full of possibilities. If ever there was a place made for the ambitious imagination of an architect, it was London. The new and the old stood shoulder to shoulder, the classical juxtaposed with the new, just like the citizens of its vast empire.
It was not Caleb’s first time on British soil; as a boy, his father had sent him to Eton for an education, thinking that it would give him a polished edge in the world of American business. In the end, his father had been disappointed in his investment, saying that Caleb had come back only dandified. During his schooling, Caleb had not been beyond the suffocating brick walls of the college, and so the ancient city was ripe for discovery now.
He had been in London for nearly a week and was slowly but surely amassing a small fortune from the card tables he visited every night with what little money he had left from his journey. His abstinence from drink meant that he was sharp, while his opponents made risky bets and played long after they should have stopped.
But that was in the evenings, and the days were long and lonely. Caleb downed the rest of his coffee, shrugged into his overcoat, and plunged into the jostling traffic of the narrow, muddy street. It was time to find his mark for the night.
He would find his man in a pub. It had to be just the right sort of pub, a place that was dark and dull enough that the men who frequented it would be willing to part with a couple of coins, but not so rough that he would risk incurring the wrath of an angry loser.
He was sopping wet and chilled to the bone by the time he laid eyes on the Crown & Cabbage, a narrow door tucked into an alley with a peeling sign depicting the pub’s two namesakes.
Inside was dim and soggy, the wet scent of wool and corduroy mingling with stale beer and body odor. It was warmer than the street, but only just. When he had enough money, he could go to the gentlemen’s clubs where the stakes were higher, the men a better caliber. But until then, places like the Crown & Cabbage would have to do.
As he surveyed the pub for a likely mark, he caught the eye of a woman lounging with one elbow propped up on the bar, her red hair loose and uncoiled. She raised her cup and winked at him in an unmistakable invitation.
His heart beat a little faster, his skin tingled with awareness. Here was his chance to be a new Caleb, a better Caleb. Or perhaps a new person all together. Caleb Pope? No, he needed something completely new, something he had never used before. Daniel... Daniel Cooke had a nice ring to it. He’d always liked Tabby’s surname, and figured she wouldn’t mind if he borrowed it now. Daniel Cooke had a strong work ethic. Daniel Cooke certainly would not take up with the first pretty girl who looked his way in a dark pub. Daniel Cooke was strictly here to play a fair game of cards and be on his merry way.
But of course, the pretty girl in question didn’t know if he was Caleb Bishop or Daniel Cooke or the prince of Liechtenstein, and before Caleb could figure out just what Daniel Cookewoulddo, she was making her way over to him. Old habits died hard, and Caleb found himself sliding over on the bench to make room for her to sit.
The woman glanced at his cup of coffee. “I didn’t even know they served coffee here. Bit of a strange choice, isn’t it? Come into a pub for a cup of old coffee?”
He raised a brow. “Bit of a presumption, isn’t it, to question a man’s choice of beverage in which to drown his sorrows?”
She clapped her hands together, squealing in delight, and sat down beside him. “You’re an American! Well, I ’spose your strange habits can be forgiven then. Ruby,” she said, sticking out her hand for Caleb to kiss.
He obliged. “Daniel Cooke.”
“Well, Mr. Cooke, I’ve not seen you in the Crown before. What brings you to our dark and dreary corner of London?”
“Business,” he said. “Architecture, to be exact.” It felt good to lie, to be someone else, even if the someone in question was shaping up to be just as much of a scoundrel as Caleb Bishop. “I was looking for a bit of hospitality when I saw the sign from the road.”
“Architecture!” Her green eyes lit up. “That sounds lucrative.”
He bestowed one of his winning smiles on her. “Oh yes, very lucrative,” he lied. “But I daresay a woman such as yourself isn’t interested in the humdrum workings of my business. Tell me, what is a rare flower like yourself doing here?”
He fell easily into the routine of flirting, letting the flattering words fall off his tongue at the right times and giving the right smiles. Ruby knew her part well, playing the coquette, laughing prettily, acting as if he was the most interesting man in the world.
As they talked, she leaned in closer, her skirt brushing his leg. Her perfume was artificially floral, too strong. He should have felt the old thrill of the dance, but all he felt was emptiness.
He drained the last of his cold coffee and dug in his pockets for some coins. If he didn’t leave soon, he would almost certainly do something with Ruby he would regret. He had to find a mark for a game of cards or he wouldn’t have enough money for his boardinghouse rent. “Miss Ruby, your company has been delightful, a warm draught on this cold night. But I’m afraid I must be going.”
Ruby pouted, her namesake-colored lips looking altogether too inviting. “Have a drink, love, a real one. ’Twill warm you up before you leave.” Ruby pushed a mug of something brown and frothy toward him.
Outside, the London wind howled and banged the pub sign into the wall. Heavy cold rain pelted against the bottle glass windows. Caleb did not relish the walk back to his boarding house. London in the day was expansive and exciting with its many parks and storied architecture, a bustling metropolis of people from every corner of the empire. London at night was a warren of oppressively narrow streets filled with cutpurses and all sorts of depraved characters.
He wavered, one arm in his still-wet coat. “I don’t drink,” he said, eyeing the cup and wishing that it didn’t look quite so inviting.
