The Orphan of Cemetery Hill - Hester Fox Page 0,84
only interested in a romp, why had she denied herself the only chance she might ever have? She had been so concerned with what made her different that she had forfeited all the little normalcies she had taken for granted.
Tabby waited for the brisk knock followed by the key in the lock that meant the serving woman was coming in. Although she didn’t have a clock, she could hear the chimes of one in the hall outside the room, and the woman always came at seven in the morning with a tray of food, and then again at seven at night to collect it.
It was a boring, numbing routine, but it was infinitely better than the days when Mr. Whitby came up to the chamber with Dr. Jameson to ask her their questions and scribble notes in their books.
They wanted to know if she could simply reach into the void and encounter a spirit? Or did she need to know the name of the deceased to find them? Did she ever see the dead walking among the living? Could the dead tell her how they died? Why did she not use her gift for profit when all of Boston was ripe for such spectacles? Hadn’t she heard of the beautiful and gifted Cora Hatch, who’d made a small fortune touring the country and relaying messages from the other side? Day in and day out, a hundred variations of the same questions.
Today was different, though. Today was to be the day.
Tabby knew because instead of her usual brown calico dress, the woman brought in a dress of blue silk and matching slippers with dainty heels. Instead of the simple fare of brown bread, beans, and cold chicken, Tabby was served beef medallions in a rich, creamy sauce with capers and a warm pudding for dessert. And when the clock outside the hall struck three, a man she had never seen before appeared, with the maidservant hovering behind him.
He gave a short bow, as if she were not a prisoner being kept against her will and he was not a complete stranger. “Miss Bellefonte, I come on behalf of Mr. Whitby. I would be most obliged if you were to put on the dress that Mr. Whitby so kindly provided for you. You have a very special engagement today.”
Tabby glared at the dress. It was the most beautiful frock she had ever seen, but it was from Mr. Whitby, and so it might as well have been made of burlap. The only dress that could rival it was Rose Hammond’s dress. As her gaze ran over the lace accents on the skirt, she realized with a start that it was Rose’s dress. She had seen her wear it at the cemetery, had remembered it because it had looked like it had waltzed right off the page of a fashion plate. Her stomach collapsed in on itself. Was this some sort of sign that she was to meet the same fate as Rose?
“Where are my manners? My name is Dr. Ferris, and I will be assisting Mr. Whitby and Dr. Jameson today. They are both busy making preparations, or Mr. Whitby would have been here himself.”
When she didn’t say anything, the man gave a tsk. “We want to look nice for our grand debut at the surgeon’s hall today, don’t we? It wouldn’t do to insult Mr. Whitby after all he’s done for you.”
“Perhaps you should put on the dress if you have such warm feelings for the venerable Mr. Whitby,” she said, shoving the balled-up silk at his chest.
The man’s cheeks went red. “Miss Cooke, it would behoove you to cooperate. I don’t need to tell you that Mr. Whitby has something of a temper, and I would hate to see it turned against you.”
He was right; it wouldn’t do to go against Mr. Whitby. She had learned that the hard way over the past months.
“Well?” he prompted.
She snatched the gown back. “Well, I can’t very well change with you in the room.”
When he had gone and locked the door behind him, Tabby slumped onto the bed, the dress growing damp in her grasped hands. The silk was smooth and cool, blue as a sapphire. It was a dress meant to be worn to a ball, where its full skirts could billow out as the wearer twirled in carefree circles. It was a dress meant to be enjoyed. But instead, she would wear it to a dreary theater, surrounded only by the