trust him,” she said simply.
“Why don’t you trust him?”
She gave a little shrug. “I couldn’t say exactly. It’s just a feeling I get.”
Caleb tilted his head, considering her. He might have dismissed her intuition out of hand, but the truth was, he got the same feeling from the cool and faultlessly polite Whitby. The man had been a fixture in their household since Caleb was a boy, a sharp, calculating man who quietly but firmly steered the business from behind the senior Mr. Bishop. Caleb had been just as surprised as Whitby when his father left him, Caleb, the business instead of to his trusted partner.
When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to elaborate on what had brought her here, he gave a sigh. “Look, I have business with Mr. Whitby and—No, don’t say it,” he stopped her as soon as she made a face. “Like him or not, he’s the best man to handle my situation. I may be a while, but please wait for me. We need to talk.”
* * *
“Well?”
Tabby hadn’t liked watching him disappear into the imposing brick building. She didn’t trust Mr. Whitby not to clamp the irons around Caleb’s wrists himself and drag him back to that filthy cell. But despite all her fears, he had emerged back into the sunshine with his usual devil-may-care swagger, winking at her as he caught her eye. She felt heat rise to her cheeks and chastised herself for so easily falling under his charming sway.
“Well what?”
She gave him an impatient look as he laced her arm through the crook of his elbow and led her away from the square. “What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing of great import.”
His easy manner made strolling with him comfortable, familiar, and despite her natural instinct to pull away, she allowed her arm to stay snugly in his. He may have been acting like his usual self, but she didn’t for one moment believe that whatever had transpired between the two men could have been of no “great import,” not when she could feel him stiffen at her question.
“Here we are.” Caleb held the door open, and Tabby stepped inside. She had never been in a coffeehouse before, and the smell of roasting coffee beans and sweets wrapped around her, warm and comforting. Tables spread with white cloths dotted the cozy interior, the low hum of conversations and delicate clinking of china cups filling the space. Tabby discreetly folded her frayed sleeve cuffs under themselves.
As they made their way to an empty table near the window, Tabby noticed that all the other patrons had one thing in common. Leaning toward Caleb, she asked in a whisper, “Is this a ladies-only establishment?”
Ignoring her question, Caleb removed his hat and gave a short bow to a table of well-dressed women. “Ladies.”
An older woman in a silk bonnet put down her cup. “Why, Mr. Bishop, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months! Prudie said she saw you going into the Beacon Club—you haven’t forsaken us, have you?”
“Never,” he said, sweeping a low bow and planting a chivalrous kiss on the woman’s gloved hand. “Cards is all I’m after in there. I could never abandon your charming company, or your cause. If you’ll excuse me, though, I have promised my friend here a pot of coffee and some of your renowned delicacies.”
“Of course.” She craned her neck to get a look at Tabby and gave her a warm smile. “I do hope you both enjoy. You must try the buns—Mrs. Denny made them.”
When the woman had returned to her conversation with her friends, Tabby tugged Caleb’s sleeve. “What cause?” she asked him. “What is this place?”
“It’s a ladies’ suffrage club, and they practice temperance,” he finally replied as he pulled a chair out for her. “They run the coffeehouse, and use the proceeds to fund their work.”
“Oh,” she said, unable to hide her surprise. “I didn’t realize you were interested in women’s suffrage. Or temperance.”
He gave her a look. “I don’t take spirits,” he said without elaborating. “Here.” He handed her a little card that listed all the café’s offerings.
After Caleb had ordered them a pot of coffee and a heaping plate of Mrs. Denny’s sweet buns dripping with honey, Tabby broached her concerns again. “What did you and Mr. Whitby talk about? Would you tell me if you were in trouble?” She watched as he took a long sip of coffee as if he wasn’t going to answer. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
Sighing,