Page 41 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
The man straightened up as Tabby approached him and gave her a suspicious glance. “Miss Tabby, what’re you doing all the way o’er here? Your pa’s not in trouble, is he?”
Tabby shook her head. “How do you do, Mr. Dwight? No, Pa is doing well, thank you.” She could only hope that she was speaking the truth.
He gave her a short nod. “All right then. Well, you take care now.” He resumed his raking.
She was interrupting his work and he was making it clear that he wasn’t interested in continuing their conversation. But she also knew that coming across him here gave her a rare chance for answers. Clearing her throat, she chose her words carefully. “Do you think anyone would stop me if I were to go inside and take a look around?”
He raised a brow. “Do I think anyone would stop you? Can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t try it if I was you.”
“Hmm.” She considered the front steps again. “Have you ever heard the name ‘Spunkers Club’?”
“No, I have not,” he said without looking up.
She glanced around, her desperation for answers warring with her common sense that he just wanted to be left alone. In the end, the former won out. “What about resurrection men?”
This time he just shook his head, still raking.
“I’m sorry to be a bother, but it would be so helpful if you could—”
At this, he stopped his work and looked up. “Miss Cooke, I’m here to keep the grounds clean and keep my head down, not answer nonsense questions. We might break bread together at Miss Suze’s table, but that’s there and this is out here. You know what will happen if I get caught talking to a white girl on the job? I’ll get docked pay, that’s what.”
Tabby bit her lip. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
Muttering something under his breath, Mr. Dwight resumed his raking and she was just about to turn away when his voice stopped her.
“Around the back there’s a door that leads to the library. Might be that someone left it unlocked. Can’t promise there ain’t nobody in there, though.”
Tabby let out a long breath of relief. She would have to be careful once inside, no more mistakes like with Mr. Whitby. “Thank you,” she said, wishing he knew just how grateful she was.
“Don’t know what you’re thanking me for. I didn’t tell you nothing.”
In the end, Caleb’s wit and acumen had been all the capital he needed to rebuild his seed money. He’d found an easy mark at a card table in the dankest, dingiest pub in all of London, bet him that he couldn’t hold his breath for twenty seconds, won threepence, and from there it had just been a question of continuing to make larger and larger bets.
As the coach rumbled through the Scottish countryside, Caleb massaged the lingering soreness in his jaw where he’d been hit. He hadn’t realized how much London had been choking the life out of him with its heavy smoke and fogs until he was well out of the city and on his way to Edinburgh.
He knew that he had traded one improbable likelihood for another, but he couldn’t help the cautious spark of optimism that took root in his chest. How many men got a second fresh start? How senseless would he have to be to waste this one, as well?
After a week in Edinburgh, he had easily tripled his modest amount of money. It was enough to fund his room and board at a clean, if not slightly small, boarding house run by an old widow. But he didn’t want to spend his days playing cards; it was time to find work—honest work—and begin this new chapter of his life in earnest.
He’d never had to work for his keep before. Everything had always been handed to him, but with the assumption that he would fail if left to his own devices. But here, he had only his wits to rely on, and it was inebriating.
He could be whatever he wanted. He could make a new life for himself, a better life. A life where he was captain of his own destiny. He would have to leave behind Caleb Bishop of course—that was the name of a guilty man in Boston, and Daniel Cooke had likewise proven to be a disappointment. So it was Caleb Pope who found himself walking down the colorful Victoria Street in the old town on a cold, overcast day.
His first stop was a rickety little shop that sold all manner of dry goods, including drafting supplies. He ran his fingers over the thick, creamy papers, and inspected the charcoals the way a miner might gold or silver. The blank sheets of paper stock invited him to design the tallest buildings possible, to fill them with hope and progress and beauty. He had only to follow his imagination.
But before he could design new buildings, he would need to show that he understood the principles of design. When he’d procured what he needed, he tucked his supplies into his waxed canvas bag to protect them from the perpetual rain that fell from the low sky and headed out into the city. Finding buildings to sketch in Edinburgh was like shooting fish in a barrel. As carriage traffic flowed around him, Caleb sketched the new Walter Scott memorial, marveling at the intricate Gothic spires that pierced the clouds. His fingers working automatically as if they had only been waiting for free rein, entire sections of the city coming to life on his paper.
He settled into a routine; during the days he roamed the city, drawing and searching for the woman in the photograph, asking every street vendor and beggar if they had seen a woman with fiery red hair and eyes as clear and sharp as ice. At night he fell into bed at the lodging house after a simple meal of bread and stew prepared by the landlady. No more card games, no visits to the theaters that filled the city. Just work and hope.
A week later Caleb had a respectable portfolio not just of sketches of recognizable landmarks around the city, but also buildings of his own imagining. An unfamiliar sensation swelled in his chest as he flipped through the sketches, and with a start, he realized it was pride.
23
OF SISTERS AND SECRETS.
THE STREETS OFEdinburgh swarmed with red-haired women, sending Caleb’s heart racing each time one crossed his path. But when they turned around, they were never Tabby, nor the young woman from the photograph.
Whatwouldhe say to Tabby if he came face-to-face with her again? Would he apologize? Not just for absconding without saying good-bye, without thanking her for the warning, but for all the times he failed to see what was right in front of him. Failed to realize what the feeling in his chest was when she was near.
