The reverend said a few words, Caleb threw a symbolic clump of warm spring dirt onto the coffin with a satisfying thud, and his mother made a pretty show of restrained sniffles. Then the black-clad pallbearers lifted the coffin and deposited it in the family crypt. All in all, it was a rather tidy affair.
Afterward, Father’s acquaintances came up, offering their condolences and promising Caleb that they were eager to continue doing business with the family. It seemed terribly gauche to conduct business at a funeral, but no doubt his father would have been appalled if the gears of industry were to grind to a halt on account of a minor detail like death. There probably wasn’t a single person among the mourners who would have considered Mr. Bishop a friend. Despite his resentment of his father, Caleb felt a pang of pity for the old man. What a miserable legacy to leave behind.
Caleb stared into the gaping entrance to the crypt that now housed his father’s mortal remains. There was a ridiculous bell contraption rigged up that his father had insisted upon. Supposedly, in the case of being buried alive, it would give him a lifeline to signal for help. Caleb doubted that if the bumpy ride up the hill hadn’t roused his father from his deathly slumber, that he was going to wake up at any point in the future.
He jumped at a light touch on his arm and spun around, half expecting his old man’s ghost to be standing there, wagging his finger in disapproval.
But it was only his lovely fiancée, her dark blue eyes filled with concern. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Rose said, “but I think your mother is ready to go home.”
He glanced over to where his mother was dabbing at her cheeks and his heart clenched at how lost the old dear looked. The tall form of his father’s business partner, Richard Whitby, stood beside her. “Will you be a love and ask Whitby to take you both home? I’d like a little more time here.”
Rose gave him a questioning look—she knew well that there was no love lost between him and his father—but angel that she was, she only nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you Wednesday for luncheon with my parents?”
“Just try and stop me.” He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.
He watched as Whitby offered his arm to Rose, Caleb’s mother trailing behind them. When the somber clip of the funeral horses had faded, Caleb was left alone with his thoughts and the soft chorus of birds. It wasn’t that he really needed any more time to pay his respects or see the old man off, he just wanted a few moments of peace and quiet after a week of chaos. Good God, what was he going to do? His father had tried to drill the fundamentals of the shipping business into him, from how to balance the ledger to inspecting cargo, but Caleb had preferred to spend his days playing cards at the Beacon Club, and his evenings at the theater. Everything about shipping was dull and dry, and that was not to mention that a good portion of its success hinged on the trade of human souls in the Caribbean. Why could his father not have just left the business in the capable hands of Whitby? Caleb certainly didn’t want it.
Before his old man’s heart had stopped beating, Caleb had been secretly studying books on architecture at the Athenaeum, and putting together a portfolio of sketches in the hopes of securing an apprenticeship at an architectural firm. He had always been fascinated by the grand buildings around Boston, and had dreamed of one day leaving his own mark on the city. To tell a story in stone, to immortalize his vision for a more beautiful world, was the most noble pursuit he could imagine. But now he had a mother and a fiancée who relied on him to keep a roof over their heads and his plans of designing beautiful buildings would have to be relegated to the fancies of youth.
Sighing, Caleb stared into the gaping tomb that had swallowed up the last of his dreams, and felt only despair.
* * *
Tabby watched the funeral procession trudge up the hill from her window, a sluggish black stream of mourners. Burials were rare in the old cemetery nowadays, and anything other than a simple affair with a handful of mourners even rarer.
The spectacle of the glass hearse