by Hester Fox
But he was wrong; she knew all too well what speaking to the dead could mean for their experiments in reanimation. The power that men like Whitby would wield if they could bring back the dead was almost too staggering to comprehend. The wealthy—who were already so afraid of dying prematurely and losing all their worldly riches—would pay exorbitant prices to live again, perhaps forever. It was all mankind had ever dreamed about, to be immortal. And Tabby was the key to the most precious treasure box that someone like Mr. Whitby could imagine. No, she understood more of the contents of men’s black hearts than he ever would.
“And what if I refuse to cooperate?”
Mr. Whitby gave a bark of laughter and looked genuinely amused. “You think yourself very brave, do you not, Miss Cooke? Well, I think that you are naive, for I have some information that would prove very damaging if it were to be known.”
What could he possibly know about her that she didn’t know herself? “You’re bluffing,” she said.
He paused. “What do you know about the early life of your beloved adoptive father?”
Tabby’s body went rigid. No no no. She had been so careful, but he had found Eli, and was prepared to do some terrible thing to him to force her hand.
“I can see by your face that you weren’t aware that your father has secrets of his own. Just as I thought,” he said. “Well, it might interest you to know that Eli Cooke is actually one Cato Walker, a fugitive slave from Virginia. Apparently, he was quite a favorite of his master. Unfortunately, the good Mr. Thorndike passed away six years ago. His son inherited his holdings and is quite determined that his father’s property be returned to its rightful owner.”
Tabby didn’t need to hear any more, didn’t want to hear any more. Eli had been a slave, and had somehow escaped hell and made his way to Boston, where he’d forged a new life for himself. She burned with fury at the unfairness of it all, that a gentle, kind man like Eli had to live in fear, while the Mr. Whitbys of the world were exempt from responsibility for their heinous actions.
She opened her mouth to tell him as much, but all that came out was a torrent of curses.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked. “Despite your assumptions about me, I’m a reasonable man. Your father has made a life here for himself, and has had the luck to thus far evade capture. I’m prepared to hold my peace, but you must cooperate.”
At some point Officer Hodsdon had been removed from the room, and Mr. Whitby’s silent presence radiated cold and menacing beside her. Dr. Jameson was hovering just beyond her field of vision, but she could hear the delicate clinking of silver medical tools.
So, it had come to this: her worst fear since she was a child. They had said they wouldn’t hurt her, but they could poke and prod at her, try to find something in her that explained her powers, perhaps even harness them. Mr. Whitby had said he hadn’t intended to kill Rose, and yet she had still ended up dead. Would the same thing happen to Tabby? And in the end, did it really matter? What had she to lose? Mostly she was sorry for Eli, that he would never know just how much he meant to her, and that he would think she had run away and left him. But she could not risk what Mr. Whitby said to be true, and so her fate was sealed.
27
IN WHICH THE FUGITIVES RETURN.
THE LAST TIME Caleb had been in Boston, he’d been stealing through the streets under the cover of darkness, his clothes filthy, his heart pounding, and a flight instinct propelling him toward the docks. Now he sat in a rather nice hack, the damp, ancient city of Edinburgh but a distant dream. They passed his club where Debbenham still owed him for cards, and then the theater where Caleb used to watch the pretty actresses from his box, waiting to catch their eye and secure an invitation to their dressing room after the play. How petty and small his old life seemed now. How much time he had wasted on a desperate and frivolous pursuit of what he had thought was happiness, and now knew to be only distraction.
Across from him sat Alice Bellefonte. She had been withdrawn and stayed below deck for most of the six-week journey, but now she sat on the edge of her seat, darting glances out the window and twining her fingers together over and over. The small hack vibrated with expectation, anxiety, and hope.
In the end, he had boarded the ship with Alice early in the morning, and watched the port disappear back into the Scottish fog. Fulfilling his dreams at the expense of abandoning Tabby in her hour of need would have been a hollow victory.
As they pulled up to his old home on Beacon Hill, his heart lurched. The flower boxes his mother took such delight in were empty in preparation for the winter, the windows dark and cold. The only sign of occupation was a thread of smoke coming from the chimney. Alice had wanted to go directly to the cemetery, had wanted to see Tabby for herself and make sure that she was all right. And though he ached to see Tabby like a marooned man aches to see land, he had reasoned that it had taken them nearly two months to reach home, and another hour or so wasn’t going to change anything. His mother, on the other hand, would be wasting away from nerves.
He had been right. As soon as his mother saw him enter the parlor, she was on her feet, rushing to him with outstretched arms. She had lost weight, and the clothes in which she had always taken so much pride hung from her, like they were no more than rags tossed over the skeletal figure of a scarecrow. She folded him into her embrace, her arms thin and fragile, and enveloped him in her familiar scent.
But then she pulled back and delivered him a stinging wallop across his cheek.
“Ow! For Chrissake, what was that for?”
“That,” she said, sniffing indignantly, “was for giving me the fright of my life. I thought you were dead!”
“Dead? Whatever would have given you that idea?” Word of his escape would have been in the papers, and he hadn’t thought that his mother would think him so weak that he had immediately perished outside the prison walls.
Her lip quivered, but she drew her head up, defensive. “A medium told me.”
“Oh, Mother,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I told you not to waste a minute nor a nickel on those people.”
“Yes, well, a widow with no children left has little recourse and I was desperate. If it wasn’t for Miss Cooke setting me right, I would have lost all hope. But you will never believe this...” She leaned in conspiratorially. “The medium was none other than Miss Cooke’s long-lost aunt!”
For the first time since they’d arrived, Alice made a noise. She took a hesitant step farther into the parlor, suddenly very pale. “Minerva Bellefonte? She was here?”
Mrs. Bishop’s gaze finally landed on Alice. “And who might this be?”
“Mother, may I present Miss Alice Bellefonte. Tabby’s sister,” he added.
Alice gave an abbreviated bow of her head.
“I see,” his mother murmured. “A pleasure. Yes, Minerva Bellefonte was here. She is supposed to be the best medium in Massachusetts. I didn’t realize she was Tabby’s aunt when I made the arrangements for the séance, but everything came to light in the most extraordinary manner.”
Caleb’s mouth went dry. “What happened?”
“Well, there was an awful row. Tabby exposed her in front of the entire assembly of ladies as a fraud. She said her piece, and before I had a chance to bring the room to order, she was gone.”
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. They should have 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 TINY room, 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 it was Rose’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 a tsk. “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.”
“Perhaps you should 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.
The man’s cheeks went red. “Miss Cooke, it would behoove you to cooperate. I don’t need to tell you that Mr. Whitby has something of a temper, and I would hate to see it turned against you.”
He was right; it wouldn’t do to go against Mr. Whitby. She h
ad learned that the hard way over the past months.
“Well?” he prompted.
She snatched the gown back. “Well, I can’t very well change with you in the room.”
When he had gone and locked the door behind him, Tabby slumped onto the bed, the dress growing damp in her grasped hands. The silk was smooth and cool, blue as a sapphire. It was a dress meant to be worn to a ball, where its full skirts could billow out as the wearer twirled in carefree circles. It was a dress meant to be enjoyed. But instead, she would wear it to a dreary theater, surrounded only by the morbidly curious.
She sat there for what might have been minutes or hours, the light from the window gradually growing dimmer and dimmer. “Miss Cooke, are you decent?” came a voice from the other side of the door.
“A moment,” she managed to make herself say.
She knew what would happen tonight; Mr. Whitby had been promising it for weeks now. For her part, it wouldn’t be anything she hadn’t done before. All he would ask her to do was open her mind and make contact. But there was one very important difference; tonight, there would be a corpse beside her. Tonight, she would see the body of the person with whom she must speak.
Stepping into the skirt and attaching the bodice, Tabby felt like Anne Boleyn dressing before her execution. There was a cloudy mirror hanging from a nail on the wall, and she studied her reflection, feeling as far away from her body as the spirits to which she spoke. Then, she took down the mirror, and smashed it against the corner of the washbasin, sending a cascade of slivers onto the floor.
“Are you all right? Miss Cooke?”
No, she was not all right. She was alive, but she was not living. She missed her sister. There was no one for her on this side of the veil save for Eli and Mary-Ruth, and she couldn’t see either of them without endangering them. Why had it taken her so long to realize what must be done? Bending down, she selected a long, jagged shard and slipped it into her stocking garter. The rest she kicked under the bed. She might be leaving this spectral plane, but she would not go alone. She would not go without a fight.