Page 39 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
People hurried home from work, doing their last errands before the snow began. Tabby had always loved the bustle before the storm, the sense of camaraderie that it inspired. In that brief window of anticipation, all differences were forgotten as people made predictions about how much snow would fall, laughing and greeting fellow last-minute shoppers. For those few moments, even Tabby belonged.
She stopped at a crossroads, taking care to keep her face covered. If she turned right, the street would take her to the north end of the city and to her cemetery. To Eli. More than once she had teetered on this corner, fighting the urge to run home and see him. But she had a chance to make things right, not just for Rose, but for all the nameless dead who had been robbed of their dignity and eternal rest. There were answers out there, and they only needed to be found. If what Mr. Graham had said was true, then the men in power were the ones responsible and would never do anything. But she could.
Turning in the opposite direction, she made her way across the city to find answers.
Caleb’s head was pounding, his jaw ached, and his mouth tasted like blood. The sound of shops opening and heels clicking on cobblestones ricocheted through his pounding head. Cracking one eye open, he was met with a horizontal view of a London gutter. The smell hit him shortly after that.
Good God, what had happened last night? He vaguely remembered drinking piss-poor coffee in a pub, the shrill laugh of a woman.
He groaned as the memories became clearer. Red hair, too many cups of ale, and a fist connecting with his jaw in an alley. In a panic, he sat himself up and frantically went through his pockets. His money was gone, all of it. That money had been his seed, his chance to rebuild his life. And now he would have to start all over. A passerby looked askance at him as he hurriedly removed his boot and pounded on the heel until a coin fell out. His last shilling. Well, that was something at least.
Grunting, he hauled himself up and divested himself of a rotting piece of cabbage that had somehow found its way onto his coat. If he had been disoriented last night, he was downright lost now. The street was broader, the shops more respectable. He was the lone degenerate. A lady in a tall, feather-bedecked hat held her handkerchief to her face in disgust as she hurried past him.
“That hardly seems necessary,” he muttered as he brushed off as much mud as he could from his coat.
Still dizzy, he’d barely gone three steps when he doubled over and was sick. Once he was upright and there was nothing left in him, he felt the first stabbing pains of hunger. He passed a bakery, the warm scent of bread enticingly wafting out into the street. Instinctually, he turned to go in, before remembering that his shilling would carry him only so far, and he would have to ration it carefully. Being poor was one thing, but being poorandhungry was a bridge too far. Oh, for the days of comfort and plenty, when Larson would bring in a tray brimming with all his favorite cakes and sandwiches.
With the rumble of his stomach goading him on, he went inside and bought all the buns and coffee that his shilling would get him, and promptly devoured them. Now he was officially penniless.
Cursing the day he had ever thought it would be a good idea to partake in drink, he trudged down the street, continuing to offend the delicate sensibilities of several ladies along the way.
What he should have done as soon as he’d made enough money from cards was invest it in drafting supplies and built a portfolio, taken it to some of the firms in the city, and tried to find a position as an apprentice or clerk. But he’d gotten swept up in the thrill of the game, and now it was gone. He would have to start all over again, perhaps pawn the fob from the watch that he had already used to pay for his journey across the Atlantic. One thing was certain: no more cards, no more women, and absolutely no more drinking.
This was much too nice a section of the city, so he cut across down to the Thames where mud larkers kept the rag and pawn shops in business. As he looked about for a promising pawnbroker, he passed a portrait studio, photographs of somber faces exemplifying the photographer’s skill pasted in the window. The sign advertised that they were portrait artist to HRH the Prince of Wales. But that wasn’t what caused him to stop short.
A picture stood in the center of the window, propped up on a small easel. The face that stared back at him was familiar, yet different, a young woman, her eyes so pale and clear as to appear colorless, with long, loose curls spilling over her shoulders. Without a second thought, he was pushing the door open and ringing the bell on the counter.
A tall, stooped man came out from a curtained room in the back, his face buried in a stack of papers he was leafing through. “May I help you?” he asked without looking up.
Caleb hardly knew where to begin. “There’s a portrait in the window...a young woman. I was wondering—”
“Of course, of course. I can replicate any pose you see there.” Finally putting the papers aside, he looked up and ran a critical eye over Caleb’s muddy and soiled suit, and the bruised and bloody spectacle that was his face. “I don’t supply the costumes, though, the sitter is responsible for their own costume. A portrait costs one pound two shillings,” he added, as if convinced the price would be a deterrent.
Caleb shook his head impatiently. “It’s not the picture, it’s the girl in it. I think I know her...that is, I was wondering if you could tell me who she was, and when the likeness was made.”
The man looked skeptical. “I pride myself on professionalism, and I cannot simply give out information about my clients, either past or present. I am, after all, portrait artist to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,” he said with a condescending sniff.
“Yes, yes, I saw the sign.” If only Caleb hadn’t spent his last coin on those buns. He needed something, anything to convince the man to tell him what he needed to know.
Caleb pulled out his watch fob and placed it on the counter. The fob had belonged to his father, and his father’s father before that. It was solid gold, inset with polished jet, and it was a minor miracle that the crook hadn’t found it last night. The fob would have easily paid for his entrance into a high stakes card game at a reputable club and then some, but this was more important.
Eying the fob, the man nodded. “Which picture is it you’re wanting to know about then?”
Caleb went to the shop window and plucked the daguerreotype from its place. “This one. When did she come in? What’s her name?” Looking at the picture was like being transported back across the ocean. It couldn’t be Tabby, yet there could be no doubt that the sitter was somehow related to her.
The man’s face shone with pride. “Ah, yes.Her,” he said with a wistful sigh. “I saw her walking past my shop one day and knew that I had to have her sit for me. In my ten years behind the lens, I have never seen eyes like that. She was hesitant, said that she didn’t want her likeness immortalized. But I wore her down,” he said proudly. “Offered her a handsome sum, and even told her she could have a copy of the portrait free of charge. But she never came back to collect it, so I keep it in the window for business.”
“What was her name?” Caleb asked, breathless.
The man shook his head. “If she told me, I’ve long forgotten. It had to have been going on three years now.”
Caleb studied the picture again. “Does she live nearby?”
“I couldn’t say. She used to pass by frequently, but I haven’t seen her since her sitting.”
The shop door opened, and two well-dressed women came in. The shopkeeper excused himself and left Caleb with his thoughts.
Any hope that Caleb might have felt on seeing the picture was quickly deflating. London was a vast city, and finding a girl with no name would be nearly impossible, and that wasn’t even taking into consideration the fact that she might not be in the city at all anymore.
