Page 51 of The Orphan of Cemetery Hill
Caleb exchanged an alarmed look with Alice. “You don’t think...?”
His answer was written in the panic in her eyes.
“When was this?” he asked.
His mother frowned, thinking. “Oh, about a month ago now, I should think. It must have embarrassed Tabby terribly because she hasn’t been back to call since then, the poor dear.” Her eyes grew misty. “Miss Cooke has become a dear friend, a very dear friend. I don’t know what I would have done without her. And Mr. Whitby, of course,” she added. “He was here the day of the séance, come to see how I was doing since you’d gone away. I can’t tell you what a trial it has been since you’ve been gone.”
Caleb barely heard her. Tabby had been here, and Mr. Whitby, as well. And then she had disappeared, never to be seen again. It couldn’t be coincidence.
“I knew we should have gone directly to the cemetery,” Alice said as Caleb jumped into the hack behind her and rapped on the roof.
The hack lurched forward. He didn’t say anything. Hot irritation crawled down his neck, the source more himself than Alice’s accusing tone. Theyshouldhave gone directly to look for Tabby, but he had wanted to see his mother. If he dug deep enough into his motives, he might have found that it was because he had also been scared to see Tabby again. What if she didn’t reciprocate his feelings? He didn’t have experience with being rejected by women, and to be rejected by the woman he esteemed above all else—well, he was not eager to find out just how much it would sting. Now all those insecurities melted away as he thought of her in danger. “Can’t this goddamn horse go any faster?”
“She could be anywhere.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” he snapped. “For God’s sake, I’ve been gone for six months. I doubt that an extra hour will seal her fate.” He said it for his own peace of mind as much as Alice’s. He didn’t add that it was his fault, that he was the one who had shared her secret gift with Officer Hodsdon, and then she had somehow found herself at his mother’s house amongst a den of wolves. If Whitby had so much as touched a hair on her head...
Drawing a deep breath, he rubbed at his temples. “I’m sorry. It’s just...”
The tension in Alice’s shoulders softened and she gave him the ghost of a smile. Reaching across the seat, she squeezed his hand. “It’s just that you love her,” she said softly. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth to deny it, the rogue inside of him rebelling against the idea of love and domesticity and all the nonsense that went with it. But then he closed his mouth, and gave a resigned nod. He did love Tabby, and God, it felt good to admit defeat, to bow down and lay his battle-scarred heart at her feet.
“Good,” Alice said, looking back out the window. “It’s about time you realized it.”
28
IN WHICH OUR HEROINE IS A PRISONER.
OUTSIDE HER TINYroom, Tabby could hear the faint tapping of rain on the window, the muffled clip of horses passing below. How much time had passed since she had been confined to the prison of this forgotten room? After her capture at Harvard, she had been examined and drugged, transported to this place without so much as an explanation of where they were taking her.
The cemetery had been a home, but it had also been something of a prison in its own right, a tiny, stagnant corner of the world where she was hidden away like a princess in a tower. But now she missed the peace, the safety of it, and would have done anything to be back there. She closed her eyes and thought of the day she and Mary-Ruth had run amongst the graves, racing for flowers in the pollen-sweet air.
When she opened her eyes again, the scene that met her could not have been farther from the gentle colors and subdued ambiance of the cemetery. The air was stale and damp, the chinoiserie wallpaper faded. There was a cobwebbed cradle in the corner, a relic of when this room must have been a happier place, filled with the laughter of children. The only window faced another gable so that there was no hope of being seen below. When she had tried to open it, she’d found it was nailed shut and would not budge.
In an effort to preserve her sanity during her imprisonment, she had undertaken a census of the room, counting every nick in the wooden bedposts, every blue tuft of wool in the flowers on the Oriental carpet. There were exactly seventeen hairline cracks running the length of the plaster molding. It was still by far the most luxurious place she’d ever slept, but even so, she would have preferred a dank crypt to the mind-numbing boredom and melancholy of her prison.
On the wall, a row of tiny scratches marked the number of days she had been confined here. Although it had been thirty-seven days, she still had no idea where exactly she was. Twice a day, a dour serving woman came in with a tray of food. Every single time Tabby had pleaded with the woman to help her, but if she understood Tabby’s pleas for mercy and escape, she gave no indication as she went briskly about the business of changing the linens and emptying the pot. It didn’t matter anymore; there was nothing worth escaping for. To escape would be to sign Eli’s fate over to the cruel slave hunters. She thought about Caleb, wondered where he was. No doubt some sunny, faraway coast with a blushing girl on his knee. Why had she been so resistant to him when he was here? Even if he was only interested in a romp, why had she denied herself the only chance she might ever have? She had been so concerned with what made her different that she had forfeited all the little normalcies she had taken for granted.
Tabby waited for the brisk knock followed by the key in the lock that meant the serving woman was coming in. Although she didn’t have a clock, she could hear the chimes of one in the hall outside the room, and the woman always came at seven in the morning with a tray of food, and then again at seven at night to collect it.
It was a boring, numbing routine, but it was infinitely better than the days when Mr. Whitby came up to the chamber with Dr. Jameson to ask her their questions and scribble notes in their books.
They wanted to know if she could simply reach into the void and encounter a spirit? Or did she need to know the name of the deceased to find them? Did she ever see the dead walking among the living? Could the dead tell her how they died? Why did she not use her gift for profit when all of Boston was ripe for such spectacles? Hadn’t she heard of the beautiful and gifted Cora Hatch, who’d made a small fortune touring the country and relaying messages from the other side? Day in and day out, a hundred variations of the same questions.
Today was different, though. Today was to be the day.
Tabby knew because instead of her usual brown calico dress, the woman brought in a dress of blue silk and matching slippers with dainty heels. Instead of the simple fare of brown bread, beans, and cold chicken, Tabby was served beef medallions in a rich, creamy sauce with capers and a warm pudding for dessert. And when the clock outside the hall struck three, a man she had never seen before appeared, with the maidservant hovering behind him.
He gave a short bow, as if she were not a prisoner being kept against her will and he was not a complete stranger. “Miss Bellefonte, I come on behalf of Mr. Whitby. I would be most obliged if you were to put on the dress that Mr. Whitby so kindly provided for you. You have a very special engagement today.”
Tabby glared at the dress. It was the most beautiful frock she had ever seen, but it was from Mr. Whitby, and so it might as well have been made of burlap. The only dress that could rival it was Rose Hammond’s dress. As her gaze ran over the lace accents on the skirt, she realized with a start that itwasRose’s dress. She had seen her wear it at the cemetery, had remembered it because it had looked like it had waltzed right off the page of a fashion plate. Her stomach collapsed in on itself. Was this some sort of sign that she was to meet the same fate as Rose?
“Where are my manners? My name is Dr. Ferris, and I will be assisting Mr. Whitby and Dr. Jameson today. They are both busy making preparations, or Mr. Whitby would have been here himself.”
When she didn’t say anything, the man gave atsk. “We want to look nice for our grand debut at the surgeon’s hall today, don’t we? It wouldn’t do to insult Mr. Whitby after all he’s done for you.”
“Perhapsyoushould put on the dress if you have such warm feelings for the venerable Mr. Whitby,” she said, shoving the balled-up silk at his chest.
