The Bone Garden: A Novel (21 page)

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

She turned to him. Beneath the shadow of her hood, her eyes gleamed from light reflected off the snow. “The day my sister was buried, Mary Robinson came to see me in the cemetery. She asked about the baby. She told me to keep her hidden, keep her safe.”

“She was speaking of your sister’s child?”

“Yes.” Rose swallowed. “I never saw Mary again. The next I heard, she was dead. And
you
were the one who found her.”

“What is the connection between these murders and your niece? I fail to see it.”

“I think her very existence is a threat to someone. Living proof of a scandalous secret.” She turned and scanned the dark street. “They’re hunting us. They’ve driven me from my lodgings. I can’t go to my job so I can’t pay the wet nurse. I don’t even dare go near her door, because they might see me there.”

“They? These vicious people you speak of?”

“They want her. But I won’t give her up, not for anything.” She turned to him, her eyes burning in the darkness. “In their hands, Mr. Marshall, she may not survive.”

The girl’s gone mad.
He stared into her eyes and wondered if this was what insanity looked like. He remembered his recent visit to her in that miserable lodging house, when he had thought Rose Connolly was a levelheaded survivor. Since then, something had changed, had driven her over the edge, into a delusional world filled with enemies.

“I’m sorry, Miss Connolly. I don’t see how I can help you,” he said, backing away. He turned and started walking again, in the direction of his lodgings, his shoes plowing two furrows through feathery snow.

“I came to you because I thought you were different.
Better.
”

“I’m only a student. What can I do?”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“The West End murders have been solved. It’s in all the newspapers.”

“They want you to
believe
they’ve been solved.”

“It’s the Night Watch’s responsibility, not mine.”

“You certainly cared when
you
were the one they accused.”

He walked on, hoping that she would tire of pursuing him. But she trailed after him like a troublesome dog as he headed north along the Charles River.

“It’s all well and good now that you’re off the hook, isn’t it?” she said.

“I have no authority to delve any deeper into the matter.”

“You yourself
saw
the creature. You found poor Mary’s body.”

He turned to face her. “And do you know how close I came to losing my position because of that? I’d be insane to raise any new questions about the murders. All it takes is a few whispers, and I could lose everything I’ve worked for. I’d be back on my father’s farm!”

“Is it so terrible to be a farmer?”

“Yes! When my ambitions are so much higher!”

“And nothing must get in the way of your ambitions,” she said bitterly.

He gazed in the direction of Dr. Grenville’s house. He thought of the champagne he’d drunk, the elegantly dressed girls he’d danced with. Once, his ambitions had been far more modest. To earn the gratitude of his patients. To know the satisfaction of wrestling a sick child from the jaws of a mortal illness. But tonight, in Dr. Grenville’s home, he’d glimpsed possibilities he’d never dreamed of, a world of comforts that could one day be his if he made no mistakes, allowed himself no missteps.

“I thought you would care,” she said. “Now I find that what really matters to you are your grand friends in their grand houses.”

Sighing, he looked at her. “It’s not that I don’t care. There’s simply nothing I can do about it. I’m not a policeman. I have no business getting involved. I suggest you walk away from it as well, Miss Connolly.” He turned.

“I can’t walk away,” she said. Her voice suddenly broke. “I don’t know where else to go…”

He took a few steps and slowed. Stopped. Behind him, she was crying softly. Turning, he saw her slumped wearily against a gate, head bowed in defeat. This was a Rose Connolly he hadn’t before seen, so different from the bold girl he’d met in the hospital ward.

“Have you no place to sleep?” he said, and saw her shake her head. He reached into his pocket. “If it’s a matter of money, you can take what I have here.”

Suddenly straightening, she glared at him. “I ask nothing for myself! This is for Meggie. It’s
all
for Meggie.” Angrily, she swept her hand across her face. “I came to you because I thought we had a bond, you and I. We’ve both seen the creature. We both know what it can do. You may not be afraid of it, but I am. It wants the baby. So it hunts me.” She took a deep breath and hugged her cloak tighter, as though to ward off the eyes of the night. “I won’t trouble you again,” she said, and turned.

He watched her walk away, a small figure receding into the curtain of falling snow. My dream is to save lives, he thought, to battle heroically at countless sickbeds. Yet when a single friendless girl pleads for my help, I cannot be bothered.

The figure was almost lost now, in the swirl of white.

“Miss Connolly!” he called. “My room is a short walk from here. For tonight, if you need a place to sleep, it might serve you.”

Twenty-three

T
HIS WAS A MISTAKE.

Norris lay in bed, considering what he would do with his guest come morning. In one moment of reckless charity, he had taken on a responsibility he did not need. It’s only temporary, he promised himself; this arrangement could not continue. At least the girl had done her best to stay unobtrusive. She had slipped silently up the stairs behind him, alerting no one in the building to the fact that he’d smuggled in a female guest. She’d curled up like an exhausted kitten in the corner and almost immediately fallen asleep. He could not even hear her breathing. Only by looking across the room, seeing her shadowy form on the floor, did he even know she was there. He thought of the challenges in his own life—such minor ones when he considered what Rose Connolly must face every day on the streets.

But there’s nothing I can do about it. The world is unjust, and I cannot change the world
.

When he rose the next day, she was still sleeping. He thought of rousing her and sending her on her way, but he didn’t have the heart. She slept as deeply as a child. By the light of day, her clothing looked even more ragged, the cloak obviously mended many times over, the hem of her skirt streaked with mud. On her finger glittered a ring set with stones of colored glass, a cheap version of the multicolored rings he saw on the hands of so many ladies, even his own mother. But this was a poor imitation, nothing but a tin ornament one would give a child. He found it oddly touching that Rose would so unabashedly wear such a trinket, as though proudly displaying her poverty right there on her finger. Poor though she was, her face was fine-boned and flawless, and her chestnut hair reflected the sun’s gleam in coppery streaks. Were she resting on a pillow of fine lace instead of rags, she would rival any beauty from Beacon Hill. But in years to come, long before the bloom had left the cheek of a Beacon Hill girl, poverty would surely dim the glow of Rose Connolly’s face.

The world is unjust. I cannot change it
.

Though he could scarcely spare the money, he left a few coins beside her; it would feed her for a few days. She was still sleeping when he left the room.

Though he had never attended a service by the Reverend William Channing, he had heard of the man’s reputation. Indeed, it was impossible not to know about Channing, whose reportedly spellbinding sermons attracted an ever-growing circle of devoted followers to the Unitarian church on Federal Street. Last night, at Dr. Grenville’s reception, the Welliver sisters had loudly sung Channing’s praises. “That’s where you’ll find anyone of consequence on a Sunday morning,” Kitty Welliver had gushed. “We’ll all be there tomorrow—Mr. Kingston and Mr. Lackaway and even Mr. Holmes, though he was raised a Calvinist. You shouldn’t miss it, Mr. Marshall! His sermons are so impressive, so profound. Truly, he makes one
think
!”

While Norris doubted that a single profound thought ever crossed Kitty Welliver’s mind, he could not ignore her suggestion that he attend. Last night, he had glimpsed the circle in which he one day hoped to circulate, and that same circle would be seated that morning in the pews of the Federal Street church.

As soon as he stepped inside, he spotted familiar faces. Wendell and Edward sat near the front, and he started to make his way toward them, but a hand tapped his shoulder, and he suddenly found himself flanked on either side by the sisters Welliver.

“Oh, we hoped you’d come!” said Kitty. “Wouldn’t you like to sit with us?”

“Yes, do!” said Gwendolyn. “We always sit upstairs.”

So upstairs he went, forcibly marched by sheer feminine will, and found himself seated in the balcony, wedged between Kitty’s skirts on the left and Gwendolyn’s on the right. He soon discovered why the sisters preferred their isolated perch in the balcony: Here they were free to gossip straight through the Reverend Channing’s sermon, which they clearly had little intention of listening to.

“Look, there’s Elizabeth Peabody! She’s looking quite severe today,” said Kitty. “And what a horrid dress. So unflattering.”

“You’d think the Reverend Channing would be tired of her company by now,” Gwendolyn whispered back.

Kitty nudged Norris on the arm. “You have heard the rumors, haven’t you? About Miss Peabody and the reverend? They’re close.” Kitty added, with sly emphasis, “
Very
close.”

Norris peered over the balcony at the femme fatale at the center of the scandal, and saw a modestly dressed woman wearing unattractive spectacles and an expression of fierce concentration.

“There’s Rachel. I didn’t know she was back from Savannah,” said Kitty.

“Where?”

“Sitting next to Charles Lackaway. You don’t suppose the two of them…”

“I can’t imagine. Don’t you think Charles looks odd today? Such a sickly expression.”

Kitty leaned forward. “He did claim he had a fever last night. Maybe he was telling the truth after all.”

Gwendolyn giggled. “Or maybe Rachel is just
too
much to bear.”

Norris tried to focus on the Reverend Channing’s sermon, but it was impossible with these silly girls chattering away. Last night their high spirits had seemed charming, but today it merely irritated him that they talked only about who was sitting next to whom, which girl was dull, which girl was bookish. He thought, suddenly, of Rose Connolly, dressed in rags and curled up exhausted on his floor, and imagined the cruel things these girls might say about her. Would Rose waste any breath gossiping about another’s girl’s dress or a minister’s flirtations? No, her concerns were elemental: how to fill her belly, where to shelter from the storm—the concerns of any base animal. Yet the Welliver sisters surely thought themselves far more civilized, because they had pretty dresses and the leisure to while away a Sunday morning in a church balcony.

He leaned against the railing, hoping that his look of concentration would be signal enough for Kitty and Gwendolyn to silence their chatter, but they just went on talking across his head.
Where did Lydia find that hideous hat? Do you see how Dickie Lawrence keeps staring at her? Oh, she told me something quite delicious this morning! The real reason Dickie’s brother had to rush home from New York. It’s all because of a young lady…
Good Lord, thought Norris, was there any scandal these girls did not know about? Any furtive glance they did not catch?

What would they say about Rose Connolly sleeping in his room?

By the time the Reverend Channing finally ended his sermon, Norris was desperate to escape the sisters, but they remained stubbornly seated, trapping him between them as the congregation began to file out.

“Oh, we can’t leave yet,” said Kitty, tugging him back down into his seat when he tried to rise. “You can see everything so much better from up here.”

“See what?” he asked in exasperation.

“Rachel has practically draped herself over Charles.”

“She’s been pursuing him since June. Remember the picnic in Weston? At his uncle’s country house? Charlie practically had to flee into the garden to escape her.”

“Why are they still sitting? You’d think Charlie would have tried to get away by now.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to escape, Gwen. Maybe she’s truly snagged him. Do you think that’s the real reason he didn’t come visit us in March? She already had him in her clutches!”

“Oh. They’re getting up now. See how she has her arm wrapped around his…” Kitty paused. “What on earth is
wrong
with him?”

Charles staggered from his seat into the aisle, and caught himself on the back of a bench. For a moment he swayed on his feet. Then his legs seemed to dissolve away beneath him, and slowly he sank to the floor.

The Welliver sisters gave a simultaneous gasp and jumped up. There was chaos below as parishioners crowded around the fallen Charles.

“Let me through!” called Wendell.

Kitty gave an exaggerated sob and pressed her hand to her mouth. “I do hope it’s nothing serious.”

By the time Norris had hurried downstairs and made his way through the crowd, Wendell and Edward were already kneeling beside their friend.

“I’m fine,” Charles murmured. “Really I am.”

“You don’t look fine, Charlie,” said Wendell. “We’ve sent for your uncle.”

“There’s no need to tell him about this.”

“You’re white as a sheet. Lie still.”

Charles moaned. “Oh, God, I’ll never live this down.”

Norris suddenly focused on the bandage encasing Charles’s left hand. The fingertips that protruded from the wrapping were red and swollen. He knelt and tugged at the bandage.

Charles gave a cry and tried to pull away. “Don’t touch it!” he begged.

“Charlie,” said Norris quietly. “I have to take a look. You know I do.” Slowly, he removed the wrappings. When at last the blackened flesh beneath was revealed, he rocked back on his heels, horrified. He looked at Wendell, who said nothing, only shook his head.

“We need to get you home, Charlie,” said Norris. “Your uncle will know what to do.”

“It’s been a few days since he nicked himself at the anatomy demonstration,” said Wendell. “He knew his hand was getting worse. Why the blazes didn’t he tell anyone? His uncle at least.”

“And admit how clumsy and incompetent he is?” said Edward.

“He never even wanted to study medicine. Poor Charlie’d be perfectly happy spending his life right here, writing his little poems.” Wendell stood at Dr. Grenville’s parlor window, gazing out as a carriage and four rolled past. Only last night, this house had rung with laughter and music; now it was eerily silent except for the creak of footsteps upstairs, and the crackle of the fire in the parlor hearth. “He has no aptitude for medicine and we all know it. You’d think his uncle would accept it.”

It was certainly obvious to everyone else, thought Norris. There’d been no student so unskilled with a knife, no one so ill prepared to tackle the grim realities of their chosen profession. The anatomy lab had been just a taste of what a physician faced. There would be far worse ordeals to come: the stench of typhus, the shrieks from the surgeon’s table. Dissecting a corpse was nothing; the dead don’t complain. The real horror was in living flesh.

They heard a knock at the front door. Mrs. Furbush, the housekeeper, scurried down the hall to greet the new visitor.

“Oh, Dr. Sewall! Thank heavens you’ve arrived! Mrs. Lackaway is frantic, and Dr. Grenville has already bled him twice, but it has not touched the fever, and he is anxious for your opinion.”

“I’m not sure that my skills are yet needed.”

“You may change your mind when you see his hand.”

Norris glimpsed Dr. Sewall as he walked past the parlor doorway, carrying his instrument bag, and heard him climb the stairs to the second floor. Mrs. Furbush was about to follow him upstairs when Wendell called out to her.

“How is Charles?”

Mrs. Furbush looked at them through the doorway, and her only answer was a sad shake of the head.

Edward murmured, “This is starting to look quite bad.”

From upstairs came the sound of men’s voices, and Mrs. Lackaway’s sobbing. We should leave, Norris thought. We’re intruding on this family’s grief. But his two companions made no move to depart, even as the afternoon wore on and the parlor maid brought them another pot of tea, another tray of cakes.

Wendell touched none of it. He sank into an armchair and stared with fierce concentration into the fire. “She had childbed fever,” he said suddenly.

“What?” said Edward.

Wendell looked up. “The cadaver he dissected that day, when he cut himself. It was a woman, and Dr. Sewall said she died of childbed fever.”

“So?”

“You saw his hand.”

Edward shook his head. “A most gruesome case of erysipelas.”

“That was gangrene, Eddie. Now he’s febrile and his blood is poisoned, by something he must have acquired with one small nick of the knife. Is it only by chance, do you think, that the woman, too, died of a fulminating fever?”

Edward shrugged. “Many women die of it. There’ve been more this month than ever.”

“And most of them were attended by Dr. Crouch,” said Wendell quietly. Once again, he stared into the fire.

They heard heavy footsteps descend the stairs and Dr. Sewall appeared, his hulking frame taking up the entire doorway. He looked over the three young men gathered in the parlor, then said, “You, Mr. Marshall! And Mr. Holmes, too. Both of you come upstairs.”

“Sir?” said Norris.

“I need you to hold down the patient.”

“What about me?” said Edward.

“Do you really think you’re ready for this, Mr. Kingston?”

“I—I believe so, sir.”

“Then come along. We can certainly make use of you.”

The three young men followed Sewall up the stairs, and with every step Norris’s dread mounted, for he could guess what was about to happen. Sewall led them along the upstairs hallway, and Norris caught a fleeting glimpse of family portraits on the wall, a long gallery of distinguished men and handsome women. They stepped into Charles’s room.

The sun was setting, and the last wintry light of afternoon glowed in the window. Around the bed, five lamps were burning. At their center lay a ghostly pale Charles, his left hand concealed beneath a drape. In a corner, his mother sat rigid with her hands balled tightly in her lap, her eyes aglow with panic. Dr. Grenville stood at his nephew’s bedside, his head drooped in weary resignation. A row of surgical instruments gleamed on a table: knives and a saw and silk sutures and a tourniquet.

Charles gave a whimper. “Mother, please,” he whispered. “Don’t let them.”

Eliza turned desperate eyes to her brother. “Is there no other way, Aldous? Tomorrow he might be better! If we could wait—”

“If he had shown us his hand earlier,” said Grenville, “I might have been able to arrest the process. A bleeding, at the outset, might have drained the poison. But it’s far too late now.”

“He said it was just a small cut. Nothing of significance.”

“I have seen the smallest cuts fester and turn to gangrene,” said Dr. Sewall. “When that happens, there is no other choice.”