Tabby was silent as she wrapped the bandage around the cleaned cut, the shadowy images of the grave robbers receding in her mind as the sky continued to lighten. “Didn’t think I would meet an angel in the graveyard when I stumbled in here,” he said, giving her another grin.
Heat rushed to Tabby’s cheeks and she ducked her head, concentrating on tying off the knot. She should have been frightened of him, frightened that he might somehow know her aunt and uncle and toss her over his shoulder and deliver her back up to them, or tell the caretaker that there was a filthy girl living in the graveyard. But there was a warmth in his soft brown eyes and she felt a camaraderie with him.
“Well,” he said, inspecting her rather sloppy handiwork, “that will have to do.” He tested his weight on the leg, grunting a little as he righted himself. He cast a reluctant look at the brightening horizon and sighed. “I suppose I should be going.”
But he made no move to leave. He was gazing hard into the distance, as if he was determined to stop the sun from rising by sheer force of will. When he spoke again his voice was so soft, so different from his previous bluster. “Do you...do you ever feel as if you don’t matter? That your life is already mapped out for you, and your wishes are inconsequential? And that even if you accept your lot, bow down and take it gladly, it’s still not enough. Just by virtue of being you you’re a disappointment, with no hope of redemption.”
It was a rather grown-up speech, and though Tabby didn’t know the source from which it sprang, she did know what it felt like to not matter. She might have told him as much, but he was already smoothing back his curls and clearing his throat. “Well, I should be going back,” he repeated with resigned conviction. “I won’t ask what a little thing like you is doing all alone at night in a graveyard, if you forget that you ever saw me.” Then he gave her a heart-melting wink, and was gone.
Tabby stood in the cool night air, her blood pounding fast and hot. It stung that he referred to her as “a little thing,” but one thing was for certain: Tabby would never, ever forget the dashing young man with kind eyes.
* * *
Every night for the next week, Tabby crept out into the cemetery, waiting with her heart in her throat to see if the young man would return. She knew it was foolish, knew that it was dangerous, but she couldn’t help herself. Even just to catch a glimpse of him would help staunch the flow of loneliness that threatened to drain her completely. As far as she knew, Alice had never returned for her, and whatever little flame of hope had flickered in her heart was well and truly extinguished now.
So on the eighth night when Tabby heard the rustle of weeds, she hardly thought twice before stealing behind the column and waiting for the young man to appear, her lips already curving into a smile in anticipation. But her smile faded as a sinister figure dressed all in black materialized out of the gloom. A sinister figure whom she had seen before.
The next day, Tabby watched as the caretaker stood by the empty grave and rubbed a weary hand over his face. After the robbery the previous week, he had walked the perimeter of the cemetery, repairing the fencing and checking the locks on the gate, but had not summoned the police. But it seemed that fences and locks could not stop the grave robbers. She had developed a sort of affinity from afar for the gentle man with the long, careworn face, and it made her bruised heart hurt to see him brought so low.
She had known that there was evil in the world, had seen the darkness and greed that had driven her aunt and uncle, had felt the devastating injustice of being robbed of her parents. But she had never known the depth of depravity that could lead men to steal the bodies of the dead. The trials of this world were bearable because of the promise of divine rest, of reuniting with loved ones on the other side; how could anyone endure life otherwise?
As she watched the caretaker heave a sigh and get to his knees to clean the gravesite, Tabby vowed that someday she would see the men that did such vile deeds brought to justice.
2
IN WHICH THERE IS A REUNION.
Boston, June 1856
THE CARRIAGE JUTTED and lurched over the steep cobblestoned hill, threatening to bring Caleb’s lunch up all over his neatly pressed suit. Perhaps if it did then he would have an excuse to bolt. Caleb hated funerals. Well, he supposed that no one really enjoyed funerals, but it was more than that. They were just so...so messy. All that sobbing and wailing, and never mind the ridiculous costumes. (Caleb drew the line at those absurd weeping veils that men insisted on putting on their beaver hats—better to leave all that frippery to the ladies.) They were public displays of what should be private. When he died—which, God willing, wouldn’t be for decades yet—he hoped that his friends would just quietly put him in a grave, raise a glass to his memory, and be done with it.
Across from him, his mother was exemplifying just the kind of fuss that Caleb was sure his father wouldn’t have tolerated. She was burying her face in his last clean handkerchief, bawling and carrying on with seemingly endless stamina. He gave her an awkward pat on her knee. “There now, Mum. All shall be well.”
But his words had no effect; if anything, she cried only the harder.
Caleb withdrew his hand. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel badly for his mother, it was just that this torrent of emotion had seemed to come out of nowhere. His old man had been hard on both son and wife, and Caleb was having difficulty grasping how his mother could be so grief stricken for the man who had never hesitated to raise his fist to her.
He shot a pleading look at the lovely young woman beside him, who had thus far been quiet during the journey from the church to the cemetery. “Can’t you say anything that will bring her around?” he whispered to his fiancée.
“She’s grieving, Caleb!” Rose hissed back.
“No, she’s hysterical.” He raked his hand through his carefully pomaded hair before he could stop himself. “She’s gone and worked herself up into such a state that she can barely breathe.” That very morning Caleb had come down to breakfast to find his mother had engaged the services of some quack medium. The woman had told his mother that her departed husband was in God’s celestial kingdom, smiling down on her and waiting patiently for their heavenly reunion. What bosh. If his father was anywhere, it wasn’t up above, and he most certainly would not have been smiling. When Caleb had informed the medium of as much, she’d had the nerve to screech at him that he had destroyed the fragile link between worlds and that it would cost them another ten dollars to reestablish it. He’d all but hauled the woman by her ridiculous black lace collar and thrown her out of the house.
Squaring her slender shoulders, Rose leaned over and placed an elegant gloved hand on Caleb’s mother’s arm. “There now, Mrs. Bishop. Look, the sun is out and you couldn’t ask for a lovelier day. Surely that must be a sign that Mr. Bishop is giving you his blessing to leave off your tears and smile.”