Page 38 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
“Don’t drink!” she exclaimed loudly, drawing a few guffaws from the old men at the bar. “You really are American, so puritan and sober. Come, join the rest of us down in the gutter, love.”
He was about to shrug the rest of the way into his coat and be on his way, but something stopped him. Why not have a drink? He couldn’t sink any lower than he already was. If the possibility of starting a new, fresh life stretched before him, then so too did the emptiness of it. He missed his mother and their house on Beacon Hill, though he would have died before admitting as much to her. He missed Buttermilk’s watery purr. He missed the broad streets of Boston and the blooming gardens. He missed Rose and her kind smile, the gentle touch of her hand on his arm. God help him, he missed Tabby. He’d spent so long chasing that elusive feeling of belonging, of being good enough. It would feel so good to let go.
Ruby wrapped herself around his arm and laughed in approval as he grabbed the cup and downed it in two gulps. The liquor blazed a warm trail throughout his body, pleasantly fuzzing the edges of reality. He’d spent so long trying not to be like his father, and look where that had gotten him. The card tables could wait. His new life could wait. Right now, he just wanted to slip into comfortable oblivion. He wanted to feel the warmth of a woman beside him and forget everything else.
“Do you have somewhere we can go? Somewhere private?”
Ruby grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. ’Ave another drink first, won’t you?”
The muddy street dipped and weaved under his feet, and Caleb had to brace himself against the slick shop walls as he made his way back from Ruby’s room. Hacks driven by mud-drenched horses trudged past, spraying him with fetid water. Misery was a pair of boots saturated with London mud. How had his father managed to drink himself into this state so regularly? It had been only one night of indulgence and between the pounding of his head and the acid in his stomach, Caleb was certain that he would never see the light of day again.
He staggered past shuttered shop windows and beggars under blankets tucked into doorways, trying to remember what streets he had taken, but London was a dark labyrinth of alleys and dead ends. An occasional gas lamp glowed in the thick darkness, but other than that, the heavy fog blocked any moonlight. Bracing himself against a lamppost, he doubled over and retched. Just as he was wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, two figures stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.
“Well, well, well. What do we ’ave here?” said a thick cockney voice. “Looks like someone’s been a little too deep in ’is cups.”
“That’s him. The fancy American toff I was tellin’ you about,” a familiar voice said. Caleb struggled to bring his gaze into focus, and he caught a glimpse of red hair and a low-cut bodice. “A rich architect, and sauced off his ass.”
The man grunted as he advanced on Caleb, backing him up against a wall. “You done good, Ruby girl.”
From somewhere beyond the panic and the haze of alcohol, Caleb almost laughed. They thought him a rich architect. They thought him Daniel Cooke, and not Caleb Bishop, the most wretched man to ever walk the earth. Well, they were in for a sore disappointment. Caleb Bishop had only had a few coins to his name.
“I don’know whatyouthink—” Caleb slurred.
A meaty fist slammed into his jaw, drowning the rest of his words in blood. Hot pain exploded in his face. Stumbling back, Caleb lost his footing in the mud and went sprawling.
He was about to get robbed, beaten, and possibly killed, and all Caleb felt was a numbing sense of disappointment; he’d had every chance in the world laid before him to start fresh, and he’d thrown it all away because he’d felt sorry for himself. He’d wasted his chance at happiness with Rose, and it occurred to him from somewhere deep down in a sober corner of his heart, that he perhapshadloved Rose, but had been too stupid to recognize his feelings of affection and respect as love. He could have made an honest living here in London, and instead he’d played cards and cheated weak men out of their money. His father had been right about him all along: he was a failure and a disappointment.
“Don’t need to be so rough,” Ruby said from somewhere beyond his vision. “Can’t you see he’s only a slip of a thing? Stiff breeze could knock ’im over.”
The blow to his pride hurt almost as much as the blow to his jaw. Almost. Hauling him up by the collar, the man pinned Caleb’s neck with his elbow, while his other hand rooted inside his coat pocket.
Pulling back, the man spat in disgust. “Where’s the rest of it, then?”
“That’s it. That’s all my money,” Caleb said through the blood. He kept one shilling squirreled away in his boot as an insurance policy, but he somehow doubted even that would appease the man.
“I thought you said ’e was rich.”
“He said he was. Guess the little fellow was lying.”
“I’m not little,” Caleb protested weakly. “I’m fine boned.”
But the man wasn’t listening. “Maybe I should kill ’im. At least get some money for ’is body then.”
That sobered him up right quick. The man was busy counting out the sorry collection of coins in his palm. Gathering his strength and what little balance he had, Caleb was able to put his head down and ram all his weight right into the man’s stomach.
Ruby screamed as her partner fell backward. “Charlie!” She crouched over him as he swore and wheezed. She wrenched back around and faced Caleb. “You bloody rotter! You bloody liar! To think, I spent all night plying you with beer and kisses. Not even a bloody guinea to your name!”
Caleb doubted that he’d done more than knock the wind out of Charlie, but he wasn’t eager to find out. Stumbling and nearly slipping again in the putrid mud, Caleb staggered out of the alley and back into foggy oblivion.
21
IN WHICH THERE IS A FAMILIAR FACE.
TABBY HURRIED THROUGHthe city. Wet leaves slicked against the cobblestones and a cold breeze carrying the scent of wood smoke clung to her cloak. The brilliant, early days of autumn had come and gone, leaving the trees bare and a bitter promise of snow in the air.
In the past two months, she had survived by watching and embroidering, taking in mending. It was a lonely existence, and aside from occasionally crossing paths with Mary-Ruth, she had become a creature of silence and solitude. She missed Eli and their little routines, their shabby yet homey rooms in the boarding house. Only occasionally did she allow her thoughts to turn to Caleb, and wondered where he was.
But tonight there was no dying person to watch, and so she would have to sleep at the flea-ridden room she shared with six other girls in a rickety tenement. They slept two to a bed, the straw mattresses damp and moldy. The last time she had slept there, someone had stolen her stockings as they’d hung on the grate to dry. As if reminding her that she had no other option, the wind kicked up, frigid air biting her through her thin cloak.
