The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

by Hester Fox

  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 OF Edinburgh 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.

  What would he 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.

  “Have ye finished with the Merritt papers?”

  Caleb came out of his thoughts to find Hugh Sanderson, one of the firm’s partners, looking at him expectantly from the doorway. An affable man of middle age, he had light brown hair, whiskers, and a pipe perpetually between his lips.

  It had been nearly a month since Caleb had arrived at the firm with his portfolio tucked under his arm, delirious with hope. Hugh had gently explained to him that they didn’t just hire men off the streets as architects, but that they were in need of a good clerk. It wasn’t the vocation of drafting plans and designing buildings of which he had always dreamed, but it was certainly more than he could have ever hoped to do in Boston.

  “Oh, right. Here,” Caleb said, leafing through stacks of paper and handing him a packet of sketches and estimates.

  Hugh glanced through the papers and gave a nod. “Good.” Taking a long puff from his pipe, he glanced out the window. “I hate to ask, since it’s downright miserable out, but we need more of that heavy stock, and—”

  Caleb all but leapt out of his seat. “I can get it.” He was desperate to get out, to resume his search, which he had all but abandoned since taking the job. Here in the office with the sound of rain on the windows it was too easy to slip into a melancholy, too dangerous to settle and never pick up his search again.

  Hugh raised a brow. “Are ye sure? Ye’ll have to get them to wrap it in canvas to protect it from the rain and—”

  “Yes, yes. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?” He gave the bewildered Hugh a clap on the shoulder as he grabbed his hat and coat and headed out into the rain.

  The brisk air was an elixir for his melancholy. He took the long way to the supply store, and found himself in one of the city’s ancient cemeteries, a sprawling necropolis of mossy stones and picturesque ruins. How different the elaborate crypts and monuments were from the simple burying grounds of Boston, with their primitive folk headstones. He had never thought death to be anything other than dreary and distasteful, but looking at the expansive cemetery through Tabby’s eyes, he began to understand how a place like this could offer hope, peace, and even beauty in its own right.

  By the time he emerged through the back gates onto the street again, the rain had transitioned to a soft mizzle, and the clouds were starting to part. He was making his way through the market square, when he caught sight of a young woman with bright red hair hawking sweets from a tray. If he hadn’t been thousands of miles across the ocean, he would have sworn that it was Tabby.

  He stopped in his tracks. There was something in the way she moved, the way she held her chin as she tried to tempt passersby with her goods. She turned around, and he caught a glimpse of icy, clear eyes. His neck went hot. They weren’t Tabby’s, but he had seen those eyes before.

  She stopped to banter with a cheesemonger, her bright hair a splash of color against the drab and rainy surroundings. Removing her tray and handing it off to another young woman, she started walking through the square. Without thinking twice, he fell into step behind her, trailing her like a hungry shadow.

  When she headed toward a pub, he decided to make his move. The supplies that Hugh was waiting for were forgotten, as was everything else. The answers to the questions that had been plaguing him for the past month were so close that he could practically reach out and touch them.

  He waited a beat before pushing the door open and following her inside. He was just about to find an innocuous place at the bar to wait, when she spun around and faced him.

  “Who are you? Why are you following me?”

  Her voice was so like Tabby’s that for a moment he was too dumbstruck to do anything but stand and gape at her.

  “Well?” In a fluid motion, the woman had slipped a little blade out of her sleeve and was now pointing at him with unnerving confidence. “If it’s money that you’re after, you could hardly have picked a worse mark.”

  Before Caleb had a chance to assure her that he had no interest in her money—or her lack thereof—a burly man twice his size ambled out from behind the bar and put himself between the woman and Caleb. “This man botherin’ ye, Allie?”

  “I don’t know,” she said without taking her gaze from Caleb’s face, or lowering the blade. “Is he?”

  This was it. “I saw your picture in London, and I recognized you back there in the square. I only want to talk,” he added. “I’m not after your money, or anything else, for that matter. I just want to talk.”

  The blade wavered. “That cursed picture,” she said, more to herself than to him. Then she tightened her grip on the handle and jabbed it in the air in his direction. “Don’t tell me that you followed me all the way from London. You aren’t one of them, are you?”

  “One of who?”
<
br />   She only narrowed her eyes, so he continued.

  “Your hair, and your...your eyes,” he said in a rush. “I... It’s just, you look like someone I know. Someone I knew. I’ve been looking for you, yes, but not following you. Well, only following you from the square, that is.”

  Hunching into his shoulders, he closed his eyes and braced for a blow to land, sure that he had insulted this stranger beyond all measure. But no blow came, and when he opened his eyes, she was looking at him with unmistakable interest.

  “Was this someone...” the woman trailed off. “Your accent—it’s American. This person that I look like, where did you see her?”

  Caleb shot another glance at the mountain of a man who was still tensed and ready to beat him to a pulp before answering. “Boston,” he said. “I’m from Boston.”

  She looked shaken, and he could see her struggling to maintain her composure as she turned toward the bartender. “I’m fine, Malcolm, thank you.”

  When the man had given him one last look of distaste and lumbered away, she turned back to Caleb. “What is her name?” she asked him in a whisper.

  “Tabitha.”

  The woman’s eyes snapped shut as she drew in a sharp breath. Then she was surveying him cautiously again. “And who are you to her? How do I know I can trust you?”

  “I might ask you the same thing,” he said, feeling suddenly protective of Tabby.

  “You’re the one who followed me. I hardly think you’re in a position to demand information from me.”

  “And yet, I would know with whom I was speaking.”

  She studied him for what felt like an eternity before saying, “My name is Alice.” She swallowed. “Tabitha is my sister.”

  It was Caleb’s turn to stare at her in silent shock. Tabby had never mentioned that she had a sister, had never even hinted at any living family beyond Eli. And yet, he realized that he had suspected, even if he had not fully admitted it to himself, that the picture could have been only one person.

  He realized that she was saying something, and he shook himself out of his stupor. “What?”

  “I said you had better tell me your name and how you know my sister, or I’ll have Malcom have a go at you.” She drew herself up. “I need to know I can trust you, that you aren’t one of them.”

  “I don’t know who they are,” he replied. She was acting as if there was some conspiracy afoot, so he opted for honesty. “Caleb Bishop,” he said with a neat bow, “of Bishop & Son Shipping. A friend of Tabby’s.” And, because he found that he was nervous and couldn’t help himself, he added, “Mr. Pope if I owe you money from cards.”

  If she understood the joke, her expression didn’t show it. His neck had grown hot under her scrutiny. All his hoping and work and prayers had come to a head, and now that he had found her, he couldn’t leave without answers. Finally, she gave him a curt nod. “All right,” she said, turning and briskly walking to a table in the corner. He let out a long, slow breath and followed.

  He had barely sat down, when she was leaning across the table, gripping his hands with surprising strength. “Tabby is alive, then? She’s all right?”

  Good God, she really didn’t know. “Er, yes. Last I saw her she was fine.” But was she still fine? Had Whitby caught up to her? A wave of guilt followed by regret crashed through him. How could he have just left her there? He had taken the lifeline thrown to him, and hadn’t even paused to consider that he hadn’t been the only one drowning.

  Alice let out a breath and relaxed her grip. The picture had admirably captured her beauty and quiet dignity, but it hadn’t prepared him for the intensity of her eyes. If Tabby’s eyes were like green mountains shrouded in clouds, then Alice’s were the sparkling reflection on a lake. Her expression was wary, guarded. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “One hundred and forty-seven days ago.”

  “That’s an awfully specific number.”

  He cleared his throat and endeavored to look casual. “Yes, well, I have a head for numbers,” he managed in a mumble.

  Alice gave him a queer look. “Just what is your relationship with my sister?”

  “She’s a friend. A dear friend.” Would that he had left Boston with something more, but dolt that he was, it had taken crossing the ocean to realize just what he had left behind.

  “I see.” Alice drummed her fingers on the rough table, suddenly looking younger, vulnerable. “Does...does Tabby ever talk about me?”

  Caleb chose his words carefully. “She never mentioned that she had a sister, no.”

  Alice nodded, but did not offer any explanation. Hesitating, Caleb tried to decide the best way to coax the truth from her. But he was too curious to be tactful. “What brought you to London without Tabby? And now Edinburgh?”

  At first it didn’t seem as if Alice had heard him; she was staring at her hands, which were clutched around her cup. The sound of glasses clinking and the boisterous voices of the after-work crowd swelled up around them. When she spoke, it was sudden and in a low, urgent tone.

  “What do you know of resurrection men?”

  Taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject, Caleb frowned. “I know that grave robbing used to be a lucrative business in the medical field, and that there has been a spate of snatchings lately in Boston after a decade of nothing.” He didn’t mention that his own father had been a victim.

  Alice nodded. “Edinburgh lives in the shadow of the murderers and body snatchers Burke and Hare, even twenty years later. But even before I came here, I’d heard stories of men digging up the graves of the freshly dead in Massachusetts for dissection and experimentation.” She wrinkled her nose in a gesture that reminded him of Tabby. “I never thought that someday my fate would be so bound up in the actions of such men.”

  She took a long breath, and Caleb waited for her to continue. “I’m getting ahead of myself. Did Tabby ever tell you anything of her early life?”

  Tabby knew so much about him, from his distaste for the shipping business, to his history with his father. But he knew very little of her aside from the fact that she was fiercely loyal to Eli and Mary-Ruth. He suddenly realized he was hungry to know everything about her, and ashamed that he had never asked when he’d had the chance. He shook his head.

  “I suppose not, given that she never mentioned me.” Alice sighed. “Our parents died in a carriage accident when I was ten years old and Tabby just seven. Our mother’s sister and her husband took us in, being that they were our only family. It was no secret in town that our mother was a clairvoyant and they assumed that Tabby and I were, as well. We—”

  Caleb nearly choked on his drink. “Wait. You’re telling me that you and Tabby are... That you have...” he trailed off. Good God, had Tabby been telling the truth? Was it even possible?

  Alice looked surprised. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything, but in order to understand the story I’m about to tell, you need to understand where we came from.”

  “Tabby said that she could speak to the dead, and that she had spoken to both my father and my fiancée on my behalf. But I rather thought she was, er, mad. Or at the very least, having a laugh at my expense.”

  Alice looked taken aback. “She told you all of that?”

  He nodded.

  “The Tabby that I knew would never, ever tell someone about her special abilities, not after what happened to her. If she did indeed tell you, then she must hold you in the highest of esteem.”

  Caleb sat in stunned silence. Regardless of whether Tabby did indeed hold some special power, she had confided in him about something that was deeply personal to her and he had been scornful and derisive, accusing her of lying.

  Alice continued. “In any case, there was no love in that household, no nurturing or protection. Instead, my aunt and uncle saw us as a means to make money, and held séances and parties where we were
forced to try to contact the dead for their friends and strangers alike. They envisioned a traveling act, with the two of us performing séances for audiences around the country. Tabby was more sensitive than me, and I knew that if we didn’t get out of that house, that she would be permanently scarred. So I started stealing bits of money here and there from our aunt and uncle, and made plans to escape to Boston.

  “The night that Tabby and I arrived in the city, I had gone to look for lodgings, for somewhere safe just to spend the night. Tabby was afraid that our aunt and uncle had followed us, and said that she felt like we were being watched. If I had been a better sister, I would have paid more attention to what she was saying. But as it was, I was tired and hungry and I thought I knew better. So I left her alone on some church steps while I went off to look for a place to sleep.”

  Alice paused in her story as the bartender came and refilled her cup. Caleb absorbed this incredible story; why had Tabby never mentioned her sister before? Or anything about her life before Boston, for that matter?

  When the bartender had gone, she continued. “Tabby was right, of course. We were being followed, just not by our aunt and uncle. There was a ring of grave robbers, and they had heard of two sisters from Amherst that had clairvoyant powers. They thought that if they had these sisters that they could find more bodies, fresher bodies, faster. They must have been following us for some time, and when we ran away from our aunt and uncle, they saw their chance and took it. It wasn’t until after I’d left Tabby on the steps that I realized I was being followed, and by then it was too late. I had to make sure that they didn’t get Tabby. I had to lead them away from her and...”

  She trailed off, and then drained her cup as Caleb sat, stunned. She’d sacrificed herself for her sister.

  “I’ll spare you the details,” she continued, “but in the end, the men realized I wasn’t the useful sister, that I didn’t possess the kind of powers that Tabby did. It was only a matter of time before they killed me and put my body to use. I escaped with my skin and found passage on a ship to London. Eventually I found my way here.”