The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

by Hester Fox

  Tabby nodded mutely. She certainly hadn’t grown any more beautiful in the almost twelve years since she’d first met him. Her hair was still shockingly red, her eyes still cloudy on account of her cursed ability. In her worn, too-small brown calico dress, she could only imagine what she looked like in his eyes.

  “You’ll forgive the impertinence, but have we met? You look familiar.”

  She had thought about this moment often, half fantasizing about the romantic possibilities, half wondering if he would even remember her. But now, faced with his question and finally seeing him in the flesh after all these years, the words got stuck in her throat. It was foolishness, she knew that now. How could she think that a chance meeting over a decade ago as children would be as memorable to him as it was to her? Besides, her childish fancies were just that—fancies. She could enjoy the romance of the fantasy in her head, but it could never be played out in real life, not when she was an aberration, a curiosity.

  He spared her the need to respond by giving a long, low whistle and snapping his fingers. “You’re the girl! The girl from this very cemetery! You helped me that night I found myself here.”

  Crossing his arms, he leaned against an obliging stone and shook his head. “I always wondered about you.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “You did?”

  “Of course! How could I not? I stumble into a cemetery and a little sprite creeps out from amongst the stones. I half thought you were a ghost! The more time passed the more I was sure I had imagined the entire incident.”

  He hadn’t just remembered her, he had thought about her over the years. She glowed at the thought. But the mystery of what had brought him there that night had stayed with her, as well. She studied him out of the corner of her eye. “Did you ever settle your debt?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your card debt. You said you were hiding from some men to whom you owed money for cards. And there was something about a kiss as well, I believe?”

  He frowned, as if searching his memory. “Oh, right. Yes. I’d forgotten. I did settle it, in fact. How clever of you to remember.”

  “But why the cemetery? Why did you come here of all places?”

  “It’s been so long now, I’ll be damned if I can remember. I suppose I thought it would be the last place he—I mean, they—would look.”

  When it became clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate, Tabby nodded toward the crypt. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said.

  “Hmm?” He looked as if he had almost forgotten why he was standing in a cemetery talking to her in the first place. “Oh yes. The old man had a bad heart,” was all he said. And then, “I’m being terribly rude, aren’t I? I haven’t even introduced myself.” He swept off his hat and gave a neat bow. “Caleb Bishop to my friends, Mr. Pope if I owe you money from cards,” he said with a devastating wink.

  “Tabitha Cooke,” she said. “Tabby to my friends, and I don’t play cards.”

  She had been in earnest, but he threw back his head and let out a pleased peal of laughter. Her legs wobbled in spite of herself, and she felt happy to have made such a fine man smile. She might not have been in the same class as him, or even the same world, but it felt good to be normal, just for a little while.

  “So, tell me, Miss Cooke, how is it that you come to be in a cemetery every time I see you?”

  “I live here.” She watched him carefully, gauging his reaction.

  One golden brow shot up. “What, here in the cemetery?”

  “Oh no, not anymore.” She pointed to the narrow town house across the street where Eli rented the attic rooms.

  But instead of looking uncomfortable or turning on his heel to leave, he only broke into a slow smile. “Oh, you’re amusing. I like you.”

  Before she could explain that she hadn’t been in jest, he was pulling out his watch and exclaiming at the time.

  “Well, Tabby Cooke. I must be off. Business calls and all that. But I do hope it won’t be over ten years until we meet again.” He tipped his hat to her and, with a dazzling grin, was off, leaving her with a pounding heart and a flicker of happiness, the likes of which she hadn’t felt since the last time they’d parted.

  3

  IN WHICH A CALLOUSED HEART STILL BEATS.

  THE DEAD WON’T bother you if you don’t give them permission.

  That night, like so many others, Tabby’s mother’s words didn’t seem to hold any truth. It was always in those liminal moments when the mind was not quite in the land of the wake, nor yet the oblivion of sleep. The dead would come, first soft and slow like a gentle snowfall, then mounting into a roaring and furious squall. They always wanted the same things: resolutions to problems unresolved in life, last words that had gone unsaid. The dead who had no such unfinished business never bothered her; they simply moved on to whatever it was that came after.

  After escaping her aunt and uncle, Tabby had never told anyone of her strange and frightening ability, but if she had, this is what she would have described: A darkness like the deepest of sleeps, a soundless, stale void without confines. The outside world snuffed to nothing like a candle flame drowning in a pool of wax. With great force of will she could pull herself out of the void, but it took a tremendous effort, both physically and mentally.

  She hated it. She hated the sickly sweet smell of rot, the sightless eyes. She hated that her mind was not her own, that she was nothing more than a vessel for outpourings of grief and anger.

  Kicking off her quilt, she padded across the tiny room to the window. Below her, mist wreathed the cemetery, headstones just visible like buoys bobbing in the harbor. Passersby might think that the dead slumbered without regard to the outside world, that their trials were over. How comforting a thought that must be, what a solace when pondering one’s own mortality. Tabby alone was privy to the burdensome truth that told her otherwise. When she finally crawled back into bed, her sleep was thin and fitful.

  * * *

  “Tabby, did you hear what I said?”

  Tabby was sitting at the rickety table in the front room that served as their parlor, a rainbow of threads spread out before her as a weeping willow slowly took shape on her embroidery frame. When the scene was finished, it would depict a widower mourning at the grave of his beloved wife, the trailing leaves of the willow echoing his tears. Tabby was quick with a needle and thread, and though the memorial embroideries were not as fashionable as they once had been, they brought in some much-needed income. And, if she concentrated on the stitches hard enough, her mind was tight as a ship, with nary a crack in her defenses against the dead.

  Frowning, she looked up Eli’s words. “What was that?”

  “I said that it looks like rain and I haven’t been out to collect the old bouquets in weeks.” Eli had been bent over his account book, but now he was peering at her. “Are you all right? You looked a thousand miles away.”

  Warmth flooded Tabby’s cheeks and she ducked her head, concentrating twice as hard on pulling her green thread through the linen. Her mind hadn’t been a thousand miles away, only a few yards, actually. She’d been thinking of young Caleb Bishop and the way he carried himself with such confidence, how he radiated charm. She was thinking of the way he made her feel as if she was the most important person in the world—no, the only person in the world—when he spoke with her. But at Eli’s question she quickly pushed such foolish thoughts away.

  “Just trying to get this stitch right,” she said lamely.

  Eli gave her a lingering look of doubt and then slowly unfolded himself from his chair. “Well, I’d better go collect them if we don’t want the rats finding them first.”

  “Oh no, you won’t,” she said, jumping up. Eli’s back had gotten bad over the past few years, and she didn’t like the idea of him stooping over more than he already needed to. “I’ll take a basket and do it. Besides,” she added, giving him a sly look, �
��I saw Miss Suze yesterday, and she said she had a pie she wanted to bring over for you.”

  At the mention of the older woman’s name, Eli obediently dropped back down in his chair. “Is that, ah...is that so?”

  Eli was a quiet man who kept his own counsel, even from his daughter. Tabby didn’t know everything of what went on in his mind, but she knew enough that she recognized the look Eli gave Miss Suze from the Baptist church as pure, unadulterated longing. Miss Suze was a widow with six grown children, at least a dozen grandchildren, and a propensity for making enough food to feed a small army. Occasionally she invited Eli and Tabby to dine with her, and Tabby always enjoyed the boisterous family meals.

  “I don’t know why you don’t just ask her,” Tabby said. “It’s clear that she holds you in high esteem.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Eli said with a deflective grunt.

  Tabby thought it was the simplest thing in the world. Miss Suze always made a point of sitting near Eli in church. Eli was a well-respected man in the community, never married, and clearly had feelings for her. Perhaps their living situation in the boarding house wasn’t ideal for a married couple, but surely they could make it work?

  As she was turning to fetch her shawl, Eli reached up and clasped her hand. “My Tabby cat,” he said, his long face creasing with a smile. “You’re a good girl. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  She looked down at her pink hand in his big brown one. The hands that had raised her were strong and capable, but she couldn’t help but notice the knuckles were starting to swell with rheumatism. Eli had always been clever with a knife, and carved intricate figurines and talismans, including the death’s head pendant that Tabby wore around her neck. He hadn’t been a young man when he’d found her, and that had been twelve years ago. She often wondered how long he would be able to continue his work when it required so much labor. From what he had told her, he was the only one willing to take on the job as caretaker after this particular cemetery had fallen out of fashion with Boston’s wealthy elite. The cemetery was filled with hundreds of unmarked graves of slaves and the African community, and Eli had left his job as a fishmonger and stepped up when no one else would. “Someone’s got to care for them, remember them,” he had told her. Because that was what Eli did; he cared for things that were broken and forgotten.

  Brushing his cheek with a kiss, Tabby squeezed his hand. “And I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  * * *

  Thick banks of clouds were rolling in from the harbor, but the day was mild and perfumed with the fresh scent of pollen when Tabby stepped outside with her basket on her elbow. Spring in the cemetery meant lush grass beneath her feet, tulips and narcissus clustered about the old stones, and flowering crab apple trees that begged to be climbed—even if she was much too old for such things.

  “Tabby!”

  She spun around to see a young woman waving at her coming up the street. Tall and raven haired with ivory skin, Mary-Ruth turned heads as she walked by, but also cleared a path, like Moses parting the Red Sea. Tabby watched as one little boy, braver than his friends, darted right up to her to try to touch her skirt. Mary-Ruth stuck her tongue out at him, which sent him scuttling back to the safety of his playmates. Children always seemed to regard her with equal parts fascination and terror, as if she were some beautiful angel of death.

  “What are you doing up this way?” Tabby asked her friend when she’d reached the cemetery. “I haven’t heard of any recent passings.”

  Mary-Ruth linked her arm through Tabby’s as they passed through the gate together. “Old Mr. Drew,” she said, shaking her head. “The gin finally got the better of him. Just came from the house and thought I would see what you were doing.”

  Wherever there was death, there was Mary-Ruth. A layer, Mary-Ruth was summoned whenever someone had died and the family needed them dressed and laid out for burial. Almost all of the bodies that came through the cemetery gates first passed under Mary-Ruth’s capable hands. Her blithesome, sunny demeanor may have seemed anathema to the somber nature of her vocation, but like Tabby, she was something of an outsider, and Tabby had gradually lowered her guard and let Mary-Ruth into her heart. Like Eli, Mary-Ruth was no stranger to the world of the dead, and so Tabby could trust her—to an extent. They talked about everything, from Mary-Ruth’s patients to Tabby’s embroidery projects, to the influx of Irish coming over on coffin ships just as Mary-Ruth had nine years ago. Everything, except the secret of Tabby’s ability, which she guarded like a starving dog with a bone.

  “Oh, nothing interesting.” Tabby lifted her empty basket to show her. “Just out to pick up the old bouquets. I don’t suppose you would want to join me?”

  “Of course! It’s a lovely spring day and I’ve been cooped up inside with naught but the dead to keep me company. Did you know,” she said, throwing Tabby a sidelong look, “that Gracie Peck has stopped watching? Her back is too bad now to sit up long nights anymore.”

  Gracie Peck was a watcher, or “watch woman,” the counterpart to Mary-Ruth. She would sit up with the sick and dying until they exhaled their last breath, and then would watch them for hours to make certain that they were not like to draw a breath again. There was no greater fear for the dying than to wake up very much alive in a coffin. When their charge was well and truly dead, the watcher would send for Mary-Ruth.

  Tabby shook her head, not liking the look in her friend’s silver eyes. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Yes,” said Mary-Ruth. She was quiet for a beat before adding, “I don’t suppose you would consider taking up for her? There’s good money in it, and I think you have just the sort of quiet, steady disposition that favors watching.”

  Tabby winced. She would be a good watcher, but not for the reasons Mary-Ruth gave. She would only have to open her mind the slightest bit and she would know if the person had passed. But Mary-Ruth didn’t know about Tabby’s ability. No one knew, not even Eli. To divulge the secret that she had carried all these years somehow felt like a betrayal to Alice, and Tabby had so little of her sister left. Besides, as soon as people learned of her abilities, she would become a curiosity, a novelty. Something to be exploited. She had only to think of Beth Bunn and the other children in the churchyard. Tabby could not jeopardize the fragile bonds she had worked so hard to forge and treasured so dearly with Mary-Ruth and Eli over the years.

  Sidestepping the question, Tabby gave her friend a bright smile. “Come,” she said. “Whoever picks up the most bouquets gets a licorice twist from Mr. Greene’s.”

  Hitching up their skirts, they took off in opposite directions. Despite the lovely day and the good company, as Tabby darted between the graves looking for old bouquets, she felt a familiar sense of melancholy prick at her. If Alice had not abandoned her, could it have been Tabby and her sister running through the warm June air, laughing and enjoying themselves? Though she loved Mary-Ruth dearly, it was tiring to never be able to completely let down her guard. With Alice, she had been able to just be herself.

  Tabby spotted a large bouquet of roses, once bright red, now browned and wilted, propped up against a headstone. No sooner had she set her eyes on it, than Mary-Ruth came from the other direction and saw it at the same time.

  “Don’t you dare, Tabby Cooke!” she squealed as she dashed to grab it.

  Tabby had no intention of letting Mary-Ruth win, and lunged to scoop it up first.

  “Aha!” Triumphant, Tabby waved the bouquet over her head, sending brown petals cascading down her shoulders.

  But her achievement went unnoticed by Mary-Ruth, who had suddenly stopped in her tracks and was looking down toward the wall of crypts. “I say, Tabs, would you look at that?”

  Tabby followed her gaze and sucked in her breath when it landed on Mr. Bishop.

  “What’s a coxcomb like him doing here?”

  Protective, territorial feelings flared up i
n Tabby’s chest. He was standing by his family crypt, looking pensive and absurdly handsome in his beaver hat and a well-cut green frock coat. “The rich have to mourn, too. Come on,” Tabby said, stuffing the bouquet into her basket and tugging at Mary-Ruth’s sleeve. “We shouldn’t intrude.”

  When Mary-Ruth didn’t budge, Tabby looked back to find she was staring at her with a little smile. “You know him, don’t you? You little minx!”

  Tabby’s cheeks burned. “Yes. I mean, no. His father was interred yesterday and he introduced himself. That’s all.”

  She could feel Mary-Ruth’s keen eyes on her. “All right, if you say so.”

  “I do,” Tabby said firmly. She was just about to pull Mary-Ruth away, when Mr. Bishop must have heard their whispers and turned around.

  He looked surprised for only a moment, but then he broke into an easy smile and waved. “Miss Cooke, was it? Out enjoying this fine day?”

  Pushing aside the burst of happiness she felt that he had remembered her name, Tabby returned the wave. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Bishop. We didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “It’s no bother,” he said amicably, and indeed he didn’t look bothered in the least. In fact, if Tabby wasn’t mistaken, he looked almost relieved to see them as he drew closer.

  Mary-Ruth elbowed her in the ribs, hard, and Tabby finally remembered her manners. “Er, Mr. Bishop, may I present Miss O’Reilly?”

  “Mr. Bishop,” Mary-Ruth said with an unnecessary curtsy.

  This was torture. For all that Tabby would have been content to just bask in Mr. Bishop’s presence, she felt awkward and plain next to Mary-Ruth, and suddenly wanted to get far, far away. “Well, we’ll leave you to enjoy your afternoon,” she said, nudging Mary-Ruth to continue up the path.

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Tabby wanted to kick herself. Enjoy his afternoon, indeed! He had come to mourn his father, and here she was acting as if he were out for a stroll in the park.