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.
“Caleb? Darling?”
Caleb turned in his seat and belatedly realized that Rose had been speaking. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“Are you all right? I swear, it seems your mind has been miles away lately.”
“Has it? I suppose it’s just—” he gestured vaguely at the small carriage interior as if it contained everything that had happened over the past few days “—my father, the business. It’s taking its toll.”
“Of course,” Rose said swiftly, taking his hand and squeezing. “I’m so sorry. You must take all the time you need.”
Caleb gave her a weak smile, but he couldn’t help but feel guilty when his thoughts turned right back to where they had been fixated: on the strangest girl he had ever met, the one with flaming red hair and eyes the color of mountains shrouded in mist. There was something about Miss Cooke that challenged him, yet made him feel instantly comfortable, as if he had always known her. Or perhaps it was the cemetery itself, the way time and all his worldly worries melted away amongst the graves and the gently bobbing flowers. It had felt so damned good just to spill out his troubles to a sympathetic ear. Rose would have listened to him—she always did—but he didn’t want to burden her, didn’t want her to have to offer solutions and feel as if she had to resolve everything for him. Sometimes a man just wanted to talk.
“Caleb? We’re