her.
* * *
Stupid man. Stupid, stupid man.
As soon as the prison expelled her onto the gray, slushy street, she began walking across the city to Beacon Hill. The sky was low and moody, a cold sting in the air that had men bundled up to their noses in thick mufflers, mothers holding their bundled children by mittened hands. Tabby had still not grown accustomed to walking without fear through the streets. Did the people she pass sense that she was different? Were her aunt and uncle still out there, looking for her?
One thing had not changed, though: Caleb still possessed the unique ability to drive her mad while simultaneously making her want to crawl into his arms and never let go. If he wanted to keep company with rats and drunkards as some sort of misplaced penance for the rest of his days in prison, that was his prerogative. But if he thought that Tabby was going to sit idly by, then he was mistaken. Him sitting in prison did Tabby no good. It didn’t bring Rose back. It didn’t erase the memories of the medical theater and the men leering at her. It didn’t erase the loneliness and crushing desperation of the past months. If he wanted to be a martyr, then he could do it out in the real world like everybody else.
* * *
Larson let Tabby in and showed her to the parlor. Mrs. Bishop sat in her chair, plucking listlessly at a loose thread on the arm of her chair. Her hair was thin and greasy, her coiffure unkempt.
“Hello, Mrs. Bishop,” Tabby said softly. “How are you?”
The older woman looked up at Tabby with glassy eyes, a vacant smile touching her lips. “You’ve come to see Caleb, haven’t you? I’m afraid he’s gone away and not likely to come back this time. He found his way back home, only to be arrested for his flight.”
“It’s you I’ve come to see, actually. About Caleb.”
Mrs. Bishop gestured vaguely to the sofa. Tabby had to push aside a pile of Caleb’s drawings to make room to sit. Measuring her words before she spoke, Tabby leaned forward. “You must know that I think rather highly of your son.”
At this, Mrs. Bishop looked up, some of the glassiness leaving her eyes. “I’ve always liked you, Tabby Cooke. My Caleb would be a fool if he didn’t, too.”
Tabby managed a small smile before continuing. “I tell you this because I think it’s possible for Caleb to be freed. He is innocent, after all, but he refuses to press his case, or even try for that matter.”
Mrs. Bishop had returned to picking at the thread, gazing sightlessly out the window. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just don’t know what to do. Thomas was the one who would know what to do in this situation, and that wretched Mr. Whitby was always the one to look after our legal affairs.”
“With all due respect, I believe you are more resourceful than you give yourself credit for. I was at the séance and saw for myself the influence you exert over the ladies in your circle.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Bishop. She gave a heavy sigh. “But the business has all but collapsed in on itself. There simply isn’t the money.”
Tabby eyed the expensive furniture, the Oriental carpets, and lamps dripping with crystals. Mrs. Bishop followed her gaze. “It’s all bought on credit,” she said. “Every stick of furniture and piece of bread in the larder.” She buried her face in her handkerchief. “Why, I couldn’t even pay the grocer’s bill this month. Soon the creditors will come banging on the door, demanding their money, and then what shall I do?”
Tabby stood and crossed the room. She had come this far, and she wasn’t going to let Caleb brood about in prison while his mother withered away.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Bishop watched as Tabby sat down at the writing desk in the corner, pulled out a sheaf of paper, and dipped the pen into ink.
“I’m writing a letter to the good ladies of the Benevolent Society,” she said, as she began to pen her missive. She thought of something. “And the ladies at the temperance coffeehouse.”
Buttermilk jumped up beside Tabby to supervise. “What can they do? We are just women,” Mrs. Bishop said with a sniff.
“We can accomplish quite a lot.” Tabby scribbled as fast as she could despite her poor penmanship and the wet, splotchy ink.
Mrs. Bishop’s interest had finally been piqued, and Tabby could