The Burying Ground. Janet Kellough
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me to your friend, Cherub?” said a voice from under the vehicle’s leather canopy. It was a deep, velvety voice that made Luke immediately want to see the person it belonged to. He ducked his head into the confines of the covered buggy.
“How do you do, ma’am,” he said.
“A pleasure.” A gloved hand was held out for him to take, but he still couldn’t see the woman clearly. She sat back in the padded seat, her face shadowed by the deep brim of her straw hat.
“Mrs. Van Hansel, this is apparently Mr. Lewis,” Cherub said. “He saved me from a very unpleasant situation.”
“Unpleasant in what way?”
“Yankees looking for runaways.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Cherub said. “But they very nearly had me.”
“Then we owe Mr. Lewis a very great debt,” Mrs. Van Hansel said. “And at the very least a ride home. Do you live near here, Mr. Lewis?”
“I’m much obliged, ma’am,” Luke replied. “But that’s not necessary. I’m a long way from home.”
“And where exactly is home?”
“Yorkville.”
Mrs. Van Hansel laughed. “Why, Mr. Lewis, that’s not a long way at all, unless you came down Yonge Street on foot. It will take us no time at all to get there. Cherub can ride in the jump seat. You climb up here beside me.” She patted the seat beside her.
“But …” Luke’s protest was only a mild one. He was still shaken by his encounter with the thugs who had attacked Cherub, not to mention the riot that had erupted at the fire. The prospect of being jammed onto an omnibus was unappealing after so much excitement.
Mrs. Van Hansel patted the seat again.
“Much obliged.” Luke climbed up beside her.
She flicked the reins and the buggy started forward, but when they reached the next intersection, Luke realized that the mob had grown in size and had spilled farther along the street. Mrs. Van Hansel urged the horse through the crowd, but just as they reached the thickest part of the throng, a cheer went up and the horse shied a little. The woman beside Luke expertly tightened the reins and the animal steadied.
“They’re throwing fire grenades,” she commented. “Much good that will do.”
Luke had to agree with her. The glass bottles filled with carbon tetrachloride had little effect on the flames that were consuming the building and did little more than fill the air with a noxious odour.
Just then a hook and ladder truck appeared at the head of the street. The driver of the wagon made little effort to avoid pedestrians as he barrelled through the crowd. Here and there people were knocked aside and Luke thought it fortunate that none of them ended up beneath the wheels of the wagon. Three policemen rushed forward, ordering the driver to halt. The driver ignored them, and one of constables leapt up onto the wagon to try to wrest the reins away. The driver launched a haymaker at the policeman, which missed the intended target of his face but landed squarely against his shoulder. The officer toppled backward onto the ground.
The rest of the police force abandoned their efforts to break up the original altercation and rushed to the aid of their colleague. Two of them ministered to the fallen policeman while the others scrambled onto the wagon, pushing the driver out of the way and grabbing at the reins. When the firefighters saw the driver being attacked, they dropped their axes and grenades and waded into the fray. Onlookers immediately joined in willy-nilly, seemingly unconcerned about whether their fists connected with constable or fireman. The scene was turning to riot, and Luke felt panic welling up in his chest. This was too much like what had happened in Montreal.
Mrs. Van Hansel managed to turn the buggy in spite of the numbers of people crowding against it, but now they were moving against the flow of traffic, as everyone not actively involved in fighting desperately tried to crowd closer so they could watch the unexpected entertainment. Either that, Luke thought, or to judge whether or not they should join in.
After several anxious minutes, the vehicle cleared the last of the crowd and the horse settled down to a steady pace. As they rode along, Luke searched for something to say to the finely dressed woman beside him.
“Cherub is an unusual name,” he ventured.
“Yes it is,” Mrs. Van Hansel agreed, “but it suits her perfectly. That’s what she looked like when she was a child — like a little cherub fallen down out of the sky. She’s become even more angelic-looking as she’s grown older.”
“You’ve known her for a long time, then?”
“Oh yes. And her mother before her. She was a genius with a needle. Cherub grew up in my household. I’m very fond of her and she helps me in many ways.”
Luke assumed from this that Cherub occupied a servant’s position. Or was an assistant of some description. Something in the nature of hired help, at any rate.
“And what do you do, Mr. Lewis?” Mrs. Van Hansel asked. She turned to him as she said it, and he was able for the first time to get a clear view of her face. To his surprise, she looked not at all like he had expected from the timbre of her voice. She was not nearly as old as she sounded, although there were a few fine lines beginning to gather at the edges of her full-lipped mouth and at the corners of her eyes. She could be no more than a few years older than Cherub, he judged. Her very round, very blue eyes dominated her heart-shaped face, and together with her porcelain-like skin gave her the look of one of the imported china dolls that he had often seen in shop windows.
“I’m a physician,” he responded in answer to her question.
Her eyebrows arched in something that was more like calculation than surprise, but the gesture still made her face seem more doll-like than before. “Oh really? You seem so young for such a responsible profession.”
“I’m just a junior partner, really,” he admitted. “I’ve been taken on to assist an older doctor in Yorkville.”
“How wonderful!”
“Yes, I was very lucky to find a position.”
“And why is that?” she asked.
“I didn’t have the money to set up on my own, or the connections that would help establish me.”
“I see,” she said, but she made no further comment, turning her full attention once again to the horse.
Luke could think of nothing more to say and they trotted along in silence. He wondered who this woman was. She had to be the wife or daughter of someone important, he figured, judging by the quality of the horse and buggy she drove. And if the clothing she wore was anything to go by, she was well-acquainted with seamstresses — her skirts were made of a fine cloth, her hat fashioned in some new mode that featured lacquered straw and yards of ribbon. The wife of someone important, he decided. And quite probably rich. He wondered if this was the sort of “connection” that might do him some good in the future, but he had no idea what he should do or say in order to nurture it.
“It’s just up here,” he said as they trotted past the Red Lion. He directed her to Christie’s house and clambered down from the buggy as soon as they reached it.
“Thank you so much.” He held out his hand for her to shake, and shifted from foot to foot as he desperately tried to think of some way to turn the chance encounter into something more.
“But aren’t you going to invite us in for a cup of tea, Dr. Lewis? It’s a long, dusty drive back to the city.”
Tea. Of course. Luke mentally kicked himself for overlooking the obvious. The rules of hospitality eased all difficulties. In all the years he was growing up, anyone who had ever shown up at the door had been invited in. And even when his mother’s stores had been depleted, she would find something to offer, even if it was only chicory coffee or nettle tea. Guests must not