by Hester Fox
But to her surprise, Mr. Bishop only gave her a genuine smile. “No, please,” he said, “don’t leave on my account.”
Mary-Ruth glanced between them, her eyes narrowing. “Do you know, I just remembered a previous engagement. You’ll both excuse me?”
Before Tabby could ask her what on earth she was talking about, Mary-Ruth was saying her good-byes. And then just like that, Tabby was alone with Mr. Bishop.
“You have a...” He gestured to her bonnet. “And another one there.” He pointed to her shoulder.
Reaching up, Tabby felt the dead rose petals from the bouquet, and hastily brushed them off.
They stood amidst the birdsong, the breeze teasing at his light hair under the rim of his hat. The clouds were growing heavier, and soon it would start to rain. Why had he wanted her to stay? She was not exactly the sort of sparkling company to which someone like him was no doubt accustomed.
“You must miss him terribly,” she said finally, with a nod toward the crypt.
He let out a snort. “I can’t say that I do.”
Putting her basket gently down, Tabby moved closer. “Why did you come visit him if you don’t miss him?”
Glancing around as if the dead might hear him, he leaned in conspiratorially. “I don’t suppose you’d tell anyone?”
“Of course not!”
This earned her a wink and her heart skipped a beat. “There’s a pet.” He let out a frustrated sigh before continuing. “I’ve inherited my old man’s shipping business and to be perfectly frank, I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m about.”
“Shipping business?” She wasn’t sure what that entailed, but it brought to mind beautiful clippers with starched-white sails fluttering against cerulean skies. Cargo holds loaded with gems and exotic spices from far-off lands. Adventures.
“Bishop & Son Shipping,” he said, incredulous. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of it? Never seen the signboards down by the docks, or on the side of Boylston Hall?”
She shook her head. She rarely ventured into the thick of the city. Even if she had, she was forever looking over her shoulder to make certain no one was following her, and she didn’t pay much attention to the riot of signboards and marquees that vied for attention.
“But surely your father must have prepared you?” she asked.
“That’s just the thing. My old man didn’t have a terrible lot of faith in me,” he said with a valiant attempt at nonchalance that made Tabby’s heart squeeze. “I suppose I wasn’t the most attentive pupil if it came down to it, either. For the life of me I can’t even remember where he kept the blasted ledgers.”
Tabby absorbed this. She could just see the young Mr. Bishop going out on the town instead of squinting over papers all night like his father had wanted. What kind of things did a man like himself get up to? Well, card games and cavorting with girls, if she remembered his first foray into the cemetery correctly.
She studied the crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes that formed when he smiled, and wondered how many women before her had gazed upon them. How many women had felt themselves the center of the universe when he bestowed them with that lopsided smile? How many women knew things about him that Tabby would never know, like the feel of his palms against their breasts, the beat of his heart under their ear when they awoke beside him in the morning?
“But that’s enough about me and my problems,” he said, brightening. He glanced at her, looked like he wanted to say something, and then glanced back away.
“What is it?” she asked.
Biting his lip, he shook his head. “You’ll think me terribly rude, but I must know.”
She waited for him to continue, and he gestured to her cloudy eyes. “Your eyes, they’re...” he trailed off, clearly realizing he’d gone down a path with no safe return. Tabby didn’t say anything. It was oddly satisfying to render such a charming and urbane man speechless and stuttering. He cleared his throat. “Can you...that is, can you see out of them?”
She could see far more than he would ever know, see things that would make grown men tremble in their boots. But she didn’t tell him this. “Yes,” she said, trying to keep a serious face. “I can see out of my eyes. For example, I can see you flushing up as pink as a tulip right now.”
“Ah...erm, yes. Of course.” He ducked his head, scrubbing at the back of his neck.
“Would you like to know if I can hear out of my ears? If I can taste with my tongue, perhaps?”
He sputtered and coughed. “No, no, that won’t be necessary, I’m sure.”
Tabby was enjoying herself immensely, but then she remembered that they were standing in front of his father’s grave. His father who had only just died and been laid to rest. She composed herself, and steered the conversation back to him.
“What about your sister?” she asked. “Does she know anything of the business?”
“My sister? If I have a sister then my father has even more to answer for.” He cocked his head and regarded her. “What on earth gave you that idea?”
“I—I thought I saw a young lady with you the other day.” Now it was Tabby’s turn to flush; she was all but admitting that she had watched him from afar.
He gave a little laugh. “What, Rose? I daresay she wouldn’t be happy to hear she was mistaken for my sister. No, she’s my fiancée.”
The words made Tabby’s chest twist in an unpleasant, unfamiliar manner. “Your fiancée,” she echoed. The woman had been pretty, like a fashion plate come to life with her tiny waist, dainty slippers, and wide, guileless blue eyes.
“Just so. And,” he said, pulling out his watch, “I promised to dine with her this evening. I hope I haven’t kept you too long from your task.”
Tabby had all but forgotten her half-empty basket of rotted flowers. She watched him leave, hailing down a hack when he reached the street. Of course Mr. Bishop had a fiancée; how could she have been so foolish? For all her years at Cemetery Hill, there had been little that Tabby missed of the outside world. There was Eli, her little room in the gables, Mary-Ruth, and her embroidering. She didn’t need to fear her aunt and uncle anymore so long as she remained vigilant. She missed Alice terribly, of course, but the aching loss had grown familiar, had become as much a part of Tabby as the memories of her sister themselves.
No, she had no expectation or desire to marry. Her heart had grown calloused and hard, a necessary defense in her struggle to survive. Yet there was a vulnerability about him that inspired in her an absurd need to please him, to help him. She should thank her lucky stars that he wasn’t available, that she had no reason to be tempted, yet all she felt was an empty longing that she knew would never be filled.
4
IN WHICH THE DEAD ARE DISTURBED.
CALEB WATCHED FROM the carriage as dusk settled over Boston, the gas lamps sputtering to life and passing by in a blur of yellow smudges. It had started raining shortly after he’d left the cemetery that afternoon and hadn’t stopped since. His head had likewise been in a fog; his thoughts vacillating wildly between the mounting pressures of his father’s business, his dashed dreams of becoming an architect, and a certain young lady who always seemed to be haunting the cemetery.
“Caleb? Darling?”
Caleb turned in his seat and belatedly realized that Rose had been speaking. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Are you all right? I swear, it seems your mind has been miles away lately.”
“Has it? I suppose it’s just—” he gestured vaguely at the small carriage interior as if it contained everything that had happened over the past few days “—my father, the business. It’s taking its toll.”
“Of course,” Rose said swiftly, taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m so sorry. You must take all the time you need.”
Caleb gave her a weak smile, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty when his thoughts
turned right back to where they had been fixated: on the strangest girl he had ever met, the one with flaming red hair and eyes the color of mountains shrouded in mist. There was something about Miss Cooke that challenged him, yet made him feel instantly comfortable, as if he had always known her. Or perhaps it was the cemetery itself, the way time and all his worldly worries melted away amongst the graves and the gently bobbing flowers. It had felt so damned good just to spill out his troubles to a sympathetic ear. Rose would have listened to him—she always did—but he didn’t want to burden her, didn’t want her to have to offer solutions and feel as if she had to resolve everything for him. Sometimes a man just wanted to talk.
“Caleb? We’re here.”
The carriage had stopped and Rose was looking at him expectantly. Outside the theater, traffic streamed alongside of them, a throng of men in tall opera hats and ladies clutching at umbrellas. Caleb had been excited for the new French melodrama when he’d booked the box last week, but now he wasn’t even sure he could sit still for three hours. He was also supposed to be in mourning, which meant no public engagements for at least a month, but Rose was still waiting for him, and she looked so fetching and hopeful that he had no choice but to shake free the fog from his head.
“Right,” he said, hopping out and offering his hand to Rose. “Shall we?”
* * *
Tabby waited until Eli was sleeping that night before she swung her legs out of bed. She was already fully dressed, so she only had to grab her cloak and put on her shoes. Tiptoeing through their rooms, she took care not to wake the landlady when she reached the main stairs. Once she was outside, she let out her breath, hurrying through the cool spring mist that hung over the hill.
The streets were empty and quiet save for the yowling of a stray dog and the occasional clip of a passing hack. When she reached the church, she settled herself on the damp steps, and closed her eyes.
She had made this same trip down the hill and to the church once a month for the past twelve years. What she was about to do could have been done from anywhere—including the comfort and privacy of her own bed—but the church was where she had last seen Alice, and if there was anyplace where some little essence of her sister still lingered in the city, it was there.
Alice had once said that their mother had taught her never to try to contact anyone you had known in life. Alice had passed on the warning, cautioning Tabby against ever contacting their parents; it was too terrible to see someone you loved on the other side.
Pushing aside her sister’s warning as she did every month, Tabby searched the cold, murky ether for the once-familiar face of her sister.
And just like every other month, no spirit came to her.
There was hope that Alice was alive yet.
Rising from the steps, Tabby turned back to the hill. There was still one more spirit with whom she must make contact that night. Tabby had never willingly exercised her ability in this way except in her search for Alice, and she wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the person she was trying to help.
After she had seen Caleb Bishop that morning and he had confided in her about his plight, she knew that she would do anything she could to help him. She didn’t know why, but his story had touched her. He was a wealthy young man from a different world, and yet she had commiserated with his predicament. After all, she knew all too well what it was like to be funneled into a path that was anathema to one’s character. And that meant that she must speak with his father, learn what he had to say about Caleb’s business responsibilities.
At the cemetery gates, she lingered, loath to go inside even as she knew she must. They were open tonight, which was odd; Eli must have forgotten to lock them. Settling herself on a bench just inside the gates, she repeated the ritual she had just performed on the church steps not even half an hour earlier. This time it was Mr. Bishop who she invited to step through the veil. She did not know what he looked like, only his name; that would have to be enough.
She had learned that the dead did not like to speak of what became of their body after death. The disconnect was too great, the horror of seeing their mortal remains too much to bear.
Mr. Bishop. She spoke silently in her mind, her words echoing through the void. You don’t know me, but I am a friend of your son’s. I know you want rest, but I believe that speaking with me could benefit us both. If nothing else, surely the old man would not want to see his business flounder at the hands of his son.
It was a rare spirit that did not accept an invitation to speak with the living. There was always some message they wanted passed on, some last word added to the record. Tabby waited, bracing herself for the inevitable.
A stale wind whipped up through the void in her mind, and then the austere, wrinkled face of a man appeared. She sucked in her breath. No matter how much she anticipated the moment of contact, it always felt like an ambush, like the air was being stolen right from her lungs.
What do you want from me, girl? Don’t you know who I am? I don’t tolerate strangers meddling in my business.
So much for death being the great equalizer. Tabby forced herself to focus on the hard ground beneath her shoes, the faint scent of salt water from the harbor. She could not allow herself to get lost in the void. I come on behalf of your son, Caleb. He—
The spirit let out an impatient snort. Caleb? That boy is not fit to handle his own allowance, never mind the business my father built up from nothing.
Even though he was only in her mind, she could smell the rot on him, feel the cold air he brought wrap itself around her. More than anything, Tabby wanted to slam the door shut, build up her wall, and never have to see this awful man again. But she had come this far and Caleb needed her, so she pressed on.
You’re wrong not to have faith in your son, but if you really care so little for him, then perhaps you will at least think of the success of Bishop & Son Shipping and answer me what I ask.
This seemed to capture his attention. His colorless eyes regarded her skeptically and it was all she could do to force herself to return his gaze in equal measure, willing him not to break contact. Very well, he finally said. I will tell you what you need to know.
When the interview was over and the smell of death had receded, Tabby leaned over with her head between her knees and heaved. At least she had what Caleb needed now. At least it hadn’t been for nothing.
When her legs felt steady again and she could breathe, she stood up, ready to slip into the warm safety of her bed. But just as she was turning to leave the cemetery, the faint tinkling of a bell sounded in the still night air.
Quickly, she slipped back inside the gates and ducked behind a gravestone. There was just enough moonlight that she could make out a man dressed in dark clothes and carrying some kind of tool, a pickax, maybe. He was speaking to someone in a hoarse whisper, but a tree obscured her view. Tabby edged closer, using gravestones as shields until she had a clear line of sight to the crypts where the man stood.
There was the second man, his bobbing cap just visible in the recessed entrance of the crypt. The bell that had been installed on the door jangled in protest as they hefted the door aside. Few crypts were equipped with such a bell, and aside from particularly windy days, Tabby had never actually heard one of them ring. But now it rang in vain.
After the spate of robberies ten years ago, Eli had mended the fence and installed new locks on the gates, and, coupled with the diminishing amount of burials in the old cemetery, it had seemed as if the days of grave robberies were nothing more than a dark memory.
But now she watched in horror, paralyzed, as the wrenching sound of metal splintered through wood. The first man paced nearby, every now and then throwing a glance over his shoulder. This would break Eli. He took so much pride in keeping the cemetery safe, a sacred space.
The man in the crypt had disappeared from sight, but now he appeared again, hefting a pale bundle to the man
above. Between the two of them, they carried the shrouded body to the far wall and clumsily hoisted it up and over to where a cart was presumably waiting on the other side.
Mouth dry as cotton, she crouched there for what seemed like hours, until her legs were numb. When the creaking of wheels had finally faded into the night, she clambered to her feet and crept over to the row of crypts.
The sourness in her stomach returned, and she felt as if she might faint, despite the anger pumping through her veins. It was a foggy night, and the moon had long since disappeared behind a heavy veil of clouds, but she didn’t need to read the plaque to know what it said: it was the Bishop crypt.
5
IN WHICH A FORBIDDEN FRUIT IS TASTED.
AFTER THE RAIN of the previous night, Boston was enjoying a sunny, warm day. Couples picnicked on the Common, children ran down Tremont Street with hoops and sticks, and shop owners threw open their windows, the scents of roasting coffee and fresh-baked bread wafting out onto the streets. With his walking stick in one hand and the sun on his face, Caleb headed out into the city. He was just going to visit his father’s grave one last time, and if he happened to bump into the intriguing Miss Cooke in the cemetery, well then, he could hardly be blamed for such a coincidence. That was what he told himself, anyway, as he briskly walked across town.
As he passed by the theater, a pretty brunette he recognized as the soprano from the other night threw him a wink. He tipped his hat, but kept walking. Since his engagement to Rose, he had been trying so hard not to slip into old habits, but he still enjoyed the attention of pretty girls. Pretty girls didn’t expect lofty things from him, like running a business or carrying on the family legacy. All they expected was flattery and a bit of fun, both of which he was only too happy to provide. Seeing Miss Cooke would be a welcome distraction from the avalanche of responsibility that had come crashing down on his shoulders in the recent days.