The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

Welcome to my blog tour for  The Orphan of Cemetery Hill

My thoughts

Rating:4

Genre:Gothic fiction

Would I recommend it? Yes, but to those that love gothic fiction with a touch of the paranormal to it

Would I read more by this author? Yes

First off I want to thank (Graydon House ) HARLEQUIN – Trade Publishing (U.S. & Canada) for in the invitation to read and review this as well as for them letting me join  in on the blog tour and a big thanks to NetGalley as well. Because what caught my attention first was the tile and second was the cover the after I read the synopsis ( which is something I don't hardly do ) I knew I want to read it because it was something that I would pick up in a heart beat.And after reading this I'm looking forward to reading more  Hester Fox even though this is my first time reading her. As for the story itself it had everything I love in a gothic tale which is the dark and somewhat creepy atmospheric and  ghosts and graveyards and murder and love. It was captivating, enchanting, a bit twisted as well, and the characters themselves I either liked them or hated them. My favorite was Tabby because of how  strong willed she was and my lasted favorite was Caleb Bishop , and how he always thought that all he had to do was smile and the girls would fall at his feet until he meet Tabby and then it was that he had to safe her even from herself but the more I read the more I saw him come to realize that she didn't need a man to take care of herself or to keep her safe that she could do that on her own and that he loved her for she was. As for the paranormal it mixed in really well with the rest of the story.

THE ORPHAN OF CEMETERY HILL

Author: Hester Fox

ISBN: 9781525804571

Publication Date: September 15, 2020

Publisher: Graydon House Books

BOOK SUMMARY:

The dead won’t bother you if you don’t give them permission.

Boston, 1844.

Tabby has a peculiar gift: she can communicate with the recently departed. It makes her

special, but it also makes her dangerous.

As an orphaned child, she fled with her sister, Alice, from their charlatan aunt Bellefonte, who

wanted only to exploit Tabby’s gift so she could profit from the recent craze for seances.

Now a young woman and tragically separated from Alice, Tabby works with her adopted father,

Eli, the kind caretaker of a large Boston cemetery. When a series of macabre grave robberies

begins to plague the city, Tabby is ensnared in a deadly plot by the perpetrators, known only as

the “Resurrection Men.”

In the end, Tabby’s gift will either save both her and the cemetery—or bring about her own destruction.

IN WHICH WE MEET OUR YOUNG HEROINE.

Boston, 1844

Tabby’s legs ached and the wind had long since snatched her flimsy bonnet away, but she kept

running through the night, her thin leather shoes pounding the cobbled Boston streets. She didn’t know

where she was going, only that she had to get somewhere safe, somewhere away from the bustling

theaters and crowds of the city. Every time someone shouted at her to watch where she was going, or

ask if she was lost, she was sure that they were one of her aunt and uncle’s friends. Would they drag her

kicking and screaming back to Amherst? Tabby shuddered. She wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t.

Her weary feet carried her up a hill lined with narrow houses, and gradually she left behind the

streets choked with theatergoers and artificially brightened with gas lamps. After cresting the hill, she

paused just long enough to catch her breath and survey her unfamiliar surroundings.

It was quieter here, the only sounds the groaning of ships in the harbor and the distant call of a

fruit hawker trying to sell off the last of the day’s soft apples. Going back down into the heart of the city

wasn’t an option, yet a wrought-iron gate blocked her way any farther, forbidding pikes piercing the

night sky. Pale headstones glowed faintly in the moonlight beyond the gate. A cemetery.

Tabby stood teetering, her heart still pounding. Dry weeds rustled in the thin night breeze,

whispering what might have been a welcome, or a warning. Behind her was the land of the living with

house windows glowing smugly yellow, the promise of families tucked safe inside. In front of her lay the

land of the dead. One of those worlds was as familiar to her as the back of her hand, the other was only

a distant fairy tale. Taking a deep breath, she shimmied through the gap in the gate.

She waded through the overgrown grass and weeds, thorny branches snagging at her thin dimity

dress and scratching her. Panic gripped her as she heard the hem tear clean away; what would Aunt

Bellefonte say if she found that Tabby had ruined her only frock? Would she smack her across her

cheek? Would Uncle lock her in the little cupboard in the eaves? Aunt Bellefonte isn’t here. You’re safe,

she reminded herself. As she pulled away to free herself, her foot caught in a tangle of roots in a sunken

grave bed and she went sprawling into the dirt. Her lip wobbled and tears threatened to overflow. She

was almost twelve years old, yet she felt as small and adrift as the day she’d learned that her parents

had perished in a carriage accident and would never step through the front door again.

This wasn’t how her first day of freedom was supposed to be. Her sister, Alice, had planned

their escape from Amherst last week, promising Tabby that they would get a little room in a boarding

house in the city. Alice would get a job at a laundry and Tabby would take in mending to contribute to

their room and board. They would be their own little family, and they would put behind them the

trauma that their aunt and uncle had wrought, making a new life for themselves. That had been the

plan, anyway.

When she and Alice had arrived in the city earlier that day, her older sister had sat her down on

the steps of a church and told her to wait while she went and inquired about lodgings. Tabby had

dutifully waited for what had felt like hours, but Alice never returned. The September evening had

turned dark and cold, and Tabby had resolved to simply wrap her shawl tighter and wait. But then a man

with red-rimmed eyes and a foul-smelling old coat had stumbled up the steps, heading right toward her.

Tabby had taken one look at him and bolted, sure that he had dark designs on her. She had soon

become lost and, in a city jumbled with old churches, hadn’t been able to find the right one again.

Another thorn snagged her, pricking her finger and drawing blood. She should have taken

shelter in the church; at least then she would have a roof over her head. At least then Alice would know

where to find her when she came back. If she came back.

Tabby stopped short. Toward the back of the cemetery, amongst the crooked graves of

Revolutionary heroes, stood a row of crypts built into the earth. Most of them were sealed up with iron

doors and bolts, but one had a gate that stood just enough ajar for a small, malnourished girl to wriggle

through.

Holding her breath against the damp musk, Tabby plunged inside. Without any sort of light, she

had to painstakingly feel her way down the crude stone steps. Lower into the earth she descended until

she reached the burial chamber.

Don’t invite them in. As she groped around in the dark for a resting place, Tabby tried to

remember what her mother had always told her. Memories of her mother were few and far between,

but her words concerning Tabby’s ability remained as sharp in her mind as words etched with a diamond

upon glass. The dead won’t bother you if you don’t give them permission, if you don’t make yourself a

willing receptacle for their messages. At least, that was how it was supposed to work.

The only other thing she had learned regarding her gift was that she should never, ever tell

anyone of it, and the lesson had been a hard one. She couldn’t have been more than six, because her

parents had still been alive and had sent her out to the orchard to collect the fallen apples for cider.

Their neighbor, little Beth Bunn, had been there, picking wild asters, but she hadn’t been alone; there

was a little boy Tabby had never seen before, watching the girls with serious eyes from a branch in an

apple tree. Tabby had asked Beth who he was, but Beth insisted she didn’t know what Tabby was talking

about. Certain that Beth was playing some sort of trick on her, Tabby grew upset and nearly started

crying as she described the little boy with blond hair and big green eyes. “Oh,” Beth said, looking at her

askance. “Do you mean to say you see Ollie Pickett? He used to live here, but he’s been dead for three

years.” That was how Tabby learned that not everyone saw the people she saw around her. A week later

she had been playing in the churchyard and noticed that all the other children were clustered at the far

end, whispering and pointing at her. “Curious Tabby,” they had called her. And that was how Tabby

learned that she could never tell a soul about her strange and frightening ability.

But even in a place so filled with death, the dead did not bother Tabby that night. With a dirt

floor for her bed and the skittering of insects for her lullaby, Tabby pulled her knees up to her chest and

allowed the tears she’d held in all day to finally pour out. She was lost, scared, and without her sister,

utterly alone in the world.

Excerpted from The Orphan of Cemetery Hill by Hester Fox Copyright © Tess

Fedore. Published by Graydon House Books.

BUY LINKS:

https://www.harlequin.com/shop/books/9781525804571_the-orphan-of-cemetery-hill.html

https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781525804571

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Z23TN8S/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-orphan-of-cemetery-hill-hester-fox/1134054714

https://www.booksamillion.com/p/9781525804571?AID=10747236

https://www.walmart.com/search/search-ng.do?search_query=9781525804571

https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Hester_Fox_The_Orphan_of_Cemetery_Hill?id=gE62DwAAQBAJ

https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-orphan-of-cemetery-hill/id1483324770

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-orphan-of-cemetery-hill

BIO:

Hester Fox is a full-time writer and mother, with a background in museum work and historical

archaeology. Most weekends you can find Hester exploring one of the many historic cemeteries

in the area, browsing bookshops, or enjoying a seasonal latte while writing at a café. She lives

outside of Boston with her husband and their son.

SOCIAL:

Jude Deveraux

Author Website: http://hesterfox.com/

TWITTER: @HesterBFox

Insta: @trotfoxwrite

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17440931.Hester_Fox