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.