The Bone Garden: A Novel (3 page)

“—to Miss Connolly that further treatment is indeed necessary.” He snapped his watch closed. “Gentlemen, I shall see you at the morning lecture, nine
A.M.
Good night.” He gave a nod, and turned to leave. As he strode away, the four medical students trailed after like obedient ducklings.

Rose ran after them. “Sir? Mr. Marshall, isn’t it?”

The tallest of the students turned. It was the dark-haired young man who’d earlier questioned the wisdom of bleeding a laboring mother, the student who’d said he’d grown up on a farm. One look at his ill-fitting suit told her that he indeed came from humbler circumstances than his classmates. She had been a seamstress long enough to recognize good cloth, and his suit was of inferior quality, its woolen fabric dull and shapeless and lacking the sheen of a fine broadcloth. As his classmates continued out of the ward, Mr. Marshall stood looking at her expectantly. He has tired eyes, she thought, and such a weary face for a young man. Unlike the others, he gazed straight at her, as though regarding an equal.

“I couldn’t help but hear your words to the doctor,” she said. “About bleeding.”

The young man shook his head. “I spoke too freely, I’m afraid.”

“Is it true, then? What you said?”

“I only described my observations.”

“And am I wrong, sir? Should I allow him to bleed my sister?”

He hesitated. Glanced, uneasily, at Nurse Poole, who was watching them with clear disapproval. “I’m not qualified to give advice. I’m only a first-year student. Dr. Crouch is my preceptor, and a fine doctor.”

“I’ve watched him bleed her three times, and each time he and the nurses claim she’s improved. But to tell God’s truth, I see no improvement. Every day, I see only…” She stopped, her voice breaking, her throat thick with tears. She said, softly: “I only want what’s best for Aurnia.”

Nurse Poole cut in: “You’re asking a
medical student
? You think he knows better than Dr. Crouch?” She gave a snort. “You might as well ask a stable boy,” she said, and walked out of the ward.

For a moment Mr. Marshall was silent. Only after Nurse Poole was out of the room did he speak again, and his words, though gentle, confirmed Rose’s worst fears.

“I would not bleed her,” he said quietly. “It would do no good.”

“What would you do? If she were your own sister?”

The man gave the sleeping Aurnia a pitying look. “I would help her sit up in bed. Apply cool compresses for the fever, morphine for pain. I would see above all that she receives sufficient nourishment and fluids. And comfort, Miss Connolly. If I had a sister suffering so, that’s what I would give her.” He looked at Rose. “Comfort,” he said sadly, and walked away.

Rose wiped away tears and walked back to Aurnia’s bed, past a woman vomiting in a basin, another whose leg was red and swollen with erysipelas. Women in labor, women in pain. Outside, the cold rain of November fell, but in here, with the woodstove burning and the windows shut, the air was close and stifling and foul with disease.

Was I wrong to bring her here? Rose wondered. Should I have instead kept her at home, where she would not have to listen all night to these terrible groans, these pitiful whimpers? The room in their boardinghouse was cramped and cold, and Dr. Crouch had recommended Aurnia be moved to the hospital, where he could more easily attend her. “For charity cases such as your sister’s,” he’d said, “the cost will be only what your family can bear.” Warm meals, a staff of nurses and physicians—all this would be waiting for her, Dr. Crouch had assured them.

But not this, thought Rose, looking down the row of suffering women. Her gaze stopped on Bernadette, who now lay silent. Slowly, Rose approached the bed, staring down at the young woman who, only five days ago, had laughed as she’d held her newborn son in her arms.

Bernadette had stopped breathing.

Three

“H
OW LONG CAN
this blasted rain keep up?” said Edward Kingston, staring at the steady downpour.

Wendell Holmes blew out a wreath of cigar smoke that drifted from beneath the hospital’s covered veranda and fractured into swirls in the rain. “Why the impatience? One would think you have a pressing appointment.”

“I do. With a glass of exceptional claret.”

“Are we going to the Hurricane?” said Charles Lackaway.

“If my carriage ever shows up.” Edward glared at the road, where horses clip-clopped and carriages rolled past, wheels throwing up clots of mud.

Though Norris Marshall also stood on the hospital veranda, the gulf between him and his classmates would have been apparent to anyone who cast even a casual glance at the four young men. Norris was new to Boston, a farm boy from Belmont who had taught himself physics with borrowed textbooks, who’d bartered eggs and milk for lessons with a Latin tutor. He had never been to the Hurricane tavern; he did not even know where it was. His classmates, all graduates from Harvard College, gossiped about people he did not know, and shared inside jokes he did not understand, and although they made no overt efforts to exclude him, they did not need to. It was simply understood that he was not part of their social circle.

Edward sighed, huffing out a cloud of smoke. “Can you believe what that girl said to Dr. Crouch? The gall of her! If any of the Bridgets in our household ever spoke that way, my mother would slap her right out into the street.”

“Your mother,” said Charles, with a tone of awe, “quite terrifies me.”

“Mother says it’s important that the Irish know their place. That’s the only way to maintain order, with all these new people moving into town, causing trouble.”

New people.
Norris was one of them.

“The Bridgets are the worst. You can’t turn your back on ’em or they’ll snatch the shirts right out of your closet. You notice something’s missing, and they’ll claim it was lost in the wash or that the dog ate it.” Edward snorted. “Girl like that one needs to learn her place.”

“Her sister may well be dying,” said Norris.

The three Harvard men turned, obviously surprised that their usually reticent classmate had spoken up.

“Dying? That’s quite a dramatic pronouncement,” said Edward.

“Five days in labor, and already she looks like a corpse. Dr. Crouch can bleed her all he wants, but her prospects do not look good. The sister knows it. She speaks from grief.”

“Nevertheless, she should remember where charity comes from.”

“And be grateful for every crumb?”

“Dr. Crouch is not bound to treat the woman at all. Yet that sister acts as though it’s their right.” Edward stubbed out his cigar on the newly painted railing. “A little gratitude wouldn’t kill them.”

Norris felt his face flush. He was about to offer a sharp retort in defense of the girl when Wendell smoothly redirected the conversation.

“I do think there’s a poem in this, don’t you? ‘The Fierce Irish Girl.’”

Edward sighed. “Please don’t. Not another one of your awful verses.”

“Or how about this title?” said Charles. “‘Ode to a Faithful Sister’?”

“I quite like that!” said Wendell. “Let me try.” He paused. “Here stands the fiercest warrior, this true and winsome maid…”

“Her sister’s life the battlefield,” added Charles.

“She—she—” Wendell pondered the next verse in the poem.

“Stands guard, unafraid!” Charles finished.

Wendell laughed. “Poetry triumphs again!”

“While the rest of us suffer,” Edward muttered.

All this Norris listened to with the acute discomfort of an outsider. How easily his classmates laughed together. How little it took, just a few improvised lines of verse, to remind him that these three shared a history he was not part of.

Wendell suddenly straightened and peered through the rain. “That’s your carriage, isn’t it, Edward?”

“About time it showed up.” Edward lifted his collar against the wind. “Gentlemen, shall we?”

Norris’s three classmates headed down the porch steps. Edward and Charles splashed through the rain and clambered into the carriage. But Wendell paused, glanced over his shoulder at Norris, and came back up the steps.

“Aren’t you joining us?” said Wendell.

Startled by the invitation, Norris didn’t immediately answer. Though he stood almost a full head taller than Wendell Holmes, there was much about this diminutive man that intimidated him. It was more than Wendell’s dapper suits, his famously clever tongue; it was his air of utter self-assurance. That the man should be inviting him to join them had caught Norris off guard.

“Wendell!” Edward called from the carriage. “Let’s go!”

“We’re going to the Hurricane,” said Holmes. “Seems to be where we end up every night.” He paused. “Or have you other plans?”

“It’s very kind of you.” Norris glanced at the two men waiting in the carriage. “But I don’t think Mr. Kingston was expecting a fourth.”

“Mr. Kingston,” said Wendell with a laugh, “could use more of the unexpected in his life. Anyway, he’s not the one inviting you. I am. Join us for a round of rum flips?”

Norris looked at the rain, falling in sheets, and longed for the warm fire that would almost certainly be burning in the Hurricane. More than that, he longed for the opening that had just been offered him, the chance to slip in among his classmates, to share their circle, if only for this evening. He could feel Wendell watching him. Those eyes, which usually held the glint of laughter, the promise of a quip, had turned uncomfortably penetrating.

“Wendell!” Now it was Charles calling from the carriage, his voice raised in an exasperated whine. “We’re freezing here!”

“I’m sorry,” said Norris. “I’m afraid I have another engagement this evening.”

“Oh?” Wendell’s eyebrow lifted in a mischievous tilt. “I trust she’s a charming alternative.”

“It’s not a lady, I’m afraid. But it’s simply something I can’t break.”

“I see,” said Wendell, though clearly he didn’t, for his smile had cooled and already he was turning to leave.

“It’s not that I don’t want—”

“Quite all right. Another time, perhaps.”

There won’t be another time, thought Norris as he watched Wendell dash into the street and climb in with his two companions. The driver flicked his whip and the carriage rolled away, wheels splashing through puddles. He imagined the conversation that would soon take place in that carriage among the three friends. Disbelief that a mere farm boy from Belmont had dared to decline the invitation. Speculation as to what other engagement, if not with a member of the fair sex, could possibly take precedence. He stood on the porch, gripping the rail in frustration at what he could not change, and what could never be.

Edward Kingston’s carriage disappeared around the corner, bearing the three men to a fire and a convivial evening of gossip and spirits. While they sit warm in the Hurricane, thought Norris, I shall be engaged in quite a different activity. One I would avoid, if only I could.

He braced himself for the cold, then stepped into the downpour and splashed resolutely toward his lodgings, there to change into old clothes before heading out, yet again, into the rain.

The establishment he sought was a tavern on Broad Street, near the docks. Here one would not find dapper Harvard graduates sipping rum flips. Should such a gentleman wander accidentally into the Black Spar, he would know, with just a glance around the room, that he’d be wise to watch his pockets. Norris had little of value in his own pockets that night—indeed, on any night—and his shabby coat and mud-spattered trousers offered little enticement to any would-be thieves. He already knew many of these patrons, and they knew his impoverished circumstances; they merely glanced up as he stepped in the door. One look to identify the newcomer, and then their disinterested gazes dropped back to their cups.

Norris moved to the bar, where moonfaced Fanny Burke was filling glasses with ale. She looked up at him with small, mean eyes. “You’re late, and he’s in a foul mood.”

“Fanny!” one of the patrons yelled. “We gettin’ those drinks this week or what?”

The woman carried the ale to their table and slammed down the glasses. Pocketing their money, she stalked back behind the bar. “He’s around back, with the wagon,” she said to Norris. “Waiting for you.”

He had not had time for supper, and he glanced hungrily at the loaf of bread she kept behind the counter but didn’t bother to beg a slice. Fanny Burke gave nothing away for free, not even a smile. With stomach rumbling, he pushed through a door, walked down a dark hall crammed with crates and trash, and stepped outside.

The rear yard smelled of wet straw and horse dung, and the interminable rain had churned the ground into a sea of mud. Beneath the stable overhang, a horse gave a nicker, and Norris saw that it was already harnessed to the dray.

“Not going to wait for you next time, boy!” Fanny’s husband, Jack, emerged from the shadows of the stable. He carried two shovels, which he threw in the back of the wagon. “Want to be paid, get here at the appointed hour.” With a grunt, he hoisted himself onto the buckboard and took the reins. “You comin’?”

By the glow of the stable lantern, Norris could see Jack staring down at him, and felt the same confusion he always did, about which eye he should focus on. Left and right skewed in different directions.
Wall-eyed Jack
was what everyone called the man, but never to his face. No one dared.

Norris scrambled up into the dray beside Jack, who didn’t even wait for him to settle onto the bench before giving the horse an impatient flick of his whip. They rolled across the muck of the yard and out the rear gate.

The rain beat down on their hats and ran in rivulets down their coats, but Wall-eyed Jack seemed scarcely to notice. He sat hunched like a gargoyle beside Norris, every so often snapping the reins when the pace of the horse flagged.

“How far we going this time?” asked Norris.

“Out of town.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?” Jack hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat into the street.

No, it didn’t matter. As far as Norris was concerned, this was a night he simply had to endure, however miserable it might prove to be. He wasn’t afraid of hard work on the farm, and he even enjoyed the ache of muscles well used, but
this
sort of work could give a man nightmares. A normal man, anyway. He glanced at his companion and wondered what, if anything, gave Jack Burke nightmares.

The dray rocked over the cobblestones, and in the back of the cart the two shovels rattled, a continuous reminder of the unpleasant task that lay ahead. He thought of his classmates, no doubt sitting that moment in the warmth of the Hurricane, enjoying a last round before heading off to their respective lodgings to study Wistar’s
Anatomy
. He’d prefer to be studying, too, but this was the bargain he’d struck with the college, a bargain he’d gratefully agreed to. This is all for a higher purpose, he thought, as they rolled out of Boston, moving west, as the shovels rattled and the dray creaked in rhythm to the words running through his head:
A higher purpose. A higher purpose
.

“Came by this way two days ago,” said Jack, and spat again. “Stopped at that tavern there.” He pointed, and through the veil of falling rain, Norris saw the glow of firelight in a window. “Had me a nice chat, I did, with the proprietor.”

Norris waited, saying nothing. There was a reason Jack had brought this up. The man did not make pointless conversation.

“Said there’s a whole family in town, two young ladies and a brother, ailing from the consumption. All of ’em doing quite poorly.” He made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Have to check in again tomorrow, see if they’re getting ready to pass on. Any luck, we’ll have three at once.” Jack looked at Norris. “I’ll be needing you for that one.”

Norris gave a stiff nod, his dislike of this man suddenly so strong he could scarcely abide being seated next to him.

“Oh, you think you’re too damn good for this,” said Jack. “Don’t you?”

Norris didn’t answer.

“Too good to be around the likes of me.”

“I do this for a greater good.”

Jack laughed. “Some high-and-mighty words for a farmer. Think you’re going to make a fine living, eh? Live in a grand house.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then the more fool, you. What’s the point if there ain’t money in it?”

Norris sighed. “Yes, Mr. Burke, of course you’re right. Money is the only thing worth laboring for.”

“You think this will make you one of those gentlemen? You think they’ll invite you to their fancy oyster parties, let you court their daughters?”

“This is a new age. Today, any man can rise above his station.”

“Do you s’pose
they
know that? Those Harvard gentlemen? Do you s’pose they’ll welcome you?”

Norris went silent, wondering if perhaps Jack had a point. He thought once again of Wendell Holmes and Kingston and Lackaway, sitting in the Hurricane, sleeve to well-tailored sleeve with others of their kind. A world away from the filthy Black Spar, where Fanny Burke reigned over her foul kingdom of the hopeless. I, too, could have been at the Hurricane tonight, he thought. Wendell had asked, but was it out of courtesy or pity?

Jack snapped the reins, and the dray jolted ahead through mud and ruts. “Still a ways to go,” he said and gave a snorting laugh. “I hope the
gentleman
here enjoys the ride.”

By the time Jack finally pulled the rig to a stop, Norris’s clothes were soaked through. Stiff and shaking from the cold, he could barely make his muscles obey as he climbed out of the cart. His shoes splashed ankle-deep in mud.

Jack thrust the shovels into his hands. “Make quick work of it.” He grabbed trowels and a tarp from the cart, then led the way across sodden grass. He did not light the lantern yet, as he did not want to be seen. He seemed to know the way by instinct, weaving among the headstones until he stopped at bare earth. There was no marker, only a mound of dirt turned muddy in the rain.