Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

But while the baby had been fed, Rose had eaten nothing since yesterday noon, and her stomach rumbled. She prowled through the hayloft, rooting in the straw until she found a hen's egg, still warm from that morning's laying. She cracked it open and tipped back her head. The raw egg slid down her throat, the yolk so slick and rich that her stomach instantly rebelled. She doubled over, nauseated, fighting to keep the egg down. It may be the only thing I eat today, she thought, and I will not waste it. At last her nausea eased, and as she raised her head, she spotted the little wooden box, tucked into a corner of the loft.

She lifted the hinged lid.

Inside were pretty pieces of glass, a seashell, and two whalebone buttons, treasures that Billy had collected as he roamed the streets of the West End. She'd noticed how his gaze was always fixed on the ground, his thin shoulders hunched over like an old man's, all to glean a penny here, a lost buckle there. Every day was a treasure hunt for Dim Billy, and a pretty button was enough to make him happy. For that he was a lucky boy, perhaps the luckiest in all of Boston, to be so easily pleased by a button. But you cannot eat buttons, and you cannot bury the dead and pay for it with worthless glass.

She shut the box and crossed to the window to peer out through smudged glass. In the yard below, chickens scratched in a garden that was little more than brown stalks and vines, withered in the cold.

Billy's treasure box suddenly reminded her of something she'd put in her pocket, something she'd completely forgotten until now. She pulled out the locket and chain and felt a sudden flash of grief at the sight of Aurnia's necklace. The locket was heart-shaped and the chain was feathery light, a delicate strand meant for a fine lady's neck. She remembered how it had gleamed around Aurnia's cream-white skin. How beautiful my sister was, she thought, and now she's merely food for worms.

This was gold. It would buy Aurnia a proper burial.

She heard voices and peeked out again through the window. A wagon filled with bales of hay had just rolled into the yard, and two men stood dickering over the price.

It was time to leave.

She scooped up the sleeping baby and made her way down the steps. Quietly, she slipped out the barn door.

By the time the two men finally agreed to the price of hay, Rose Connolly was already well away, shaking the straw from her skirt as she carried Meggie toward the West End.

A freezing mist clung to the ground of St. Augustine's cemetery, hiding the legs of the mourners who seemed to float, unattached to the earth, their torsos drifting only on fog. There are so many here today, thought Rose; but their sorrow was not for Aurnia. She watched the procession trail behind a small coffin that skimmed above the mist, and she could hear every sniffle, every sob, the sounds of heartbreak trapped and magnified, as though the air itself were weeping. The child's funeral moved past, black skirts and cloaks churning the mist into silvery whirlpools. No one glanced at Rose. Holding Meggie in her arms, she stood in a forlorn corner of the cemetery, beside the newly turned mound of earth. To them, she was but a ghost in the fog, her grief invisible to those blinded by their own.

— She's 'bout deep enough, miss. —

Rose turned to look at the two gravediggers. The older one dragged a sleeve across his face, leaving streaks of mud on his cheek, where the skin was deeply seamed from years of exposure to sun and wind. Poor man, she thought, you're too old to still be wielding a shovel, to be hacking away at the frozen ground. But we all need to eat. And what would she be doing when she was his age, when she could no longer see well enough to thread her needle?

— Will there be no one else to see her laid to rest? — he asked.

— No one else, — she said, and looked down at Aurnia's coffin. This was Rose's loss, hers alone, and she was too selfish to share it with anyone. She fought the sudden impulse to tear off the lid, to gaze once again on her sister's face. What if, by some miracle, she was not dead? What if Aurnia were to stir and open her eyes? Rose reached toward the coffin, then forced her hand back to her side. There are no miracles, she thought. And Aurnia is gone.

— Shall we finish, then? —

She swallowed her tears and gave a nod.

The old man turned to his partner, a blank-faced teenager who'd shoveled with lackadaisical effort, and who now stood slouched and indifferent. — Help me put her in. —

Ropes creaked as they lowered the coffin, dislodging clots of dirt that thudded into the hole. I have paid for a grave all your own, darling, thought Rose. A private place of rest that you'll not need to share with some husband who paws you, some beggar who stinks. For once you'll sleep alone, a luxury that escaped you while you lived.

The coffin gave a jolt as it hit bottom. The boy had let his attention wander, and had played out the rope too quickly. Rose caught the look the old man gave the boy, a look that said, I'll deal with you later . The boy didn't even notice, and simply yanked his rope out of the hole. It came slithering up like a cobra, and the end slapped smartly against the pine box. Their task almost completed, the boy worked with more alacrity now as they filled the hole. Perhaps he was thinking of his lunch by a warm fire, and how all that kept him from it was this one grave. He had not seen the occupant of the coffin, nor did he seem to care. All that mattered was that this hole must be filled, and so he put his back into it, shovel after shovel full of soggy earth landing on the coffin.

At the other end of the cemetery, where the child was being laid to rest, a loud wail rose from the mourners, a woman's cry so ragged with pain that Rose turned and looked toward the other grave. Only then did she see the ghostly silhouette approaching them through the fog. The figure emerged from its veil of mist, and Rose recognized the face peering out from beneath the hood of the cape. It was Mary Robinson, the young nurse from the hospital. Mary paused and looked over her shoulder, as though sensing that someone was behind her, but Rose saw no one except the other mourners, who stood like a circle of statues around the child's grave.

— I didn't know where else to find you, — said Mary. — I'm sorry for your sister. God rest her soul. —

Rose wiped her eyes, smearing tears and mist across her cheek. — You were kind to her, Miss Robinson. Far kinder than… — She stopped, not wanting to invoke Nurse Poole's name. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead.

Mary moved closer. As Rose blinked away tears, she focused on the young nurse's tense face, her pinched eyes. Mary leaned in, and her voice dropped to a whisper, her words almost lost in the scrape of the gravediggers' shovels.

— There are people inquiring about the child. —

Rose gave a weary sigh and looked down at her niece, who lay serene in her arms. Little Meggie had inherited Aurnia's sweet temperament, and she was content to lie quietly and study the world with her wide eyes. — I've given them my answer. She stays with her own people. With me. —

— Rose, they're not from the infant asylum. I promised Miss Poole that I'd say nothing, but now I cannot remain silent. The night the baby was born, after you left the room, your sister told us… — Suddenly Mary fell still, her gaze riveted not on Rose, but on something in the distance.

— Miss Robinson? —

— Keep the child safe, — Mary said. — Keep her hidden. —

Rose turned to see what Mary was looking at, and when she saw Eben stride out of the fog, her throat went dry. Though her hands were shaking, she stood her ground, resolved not to be bullied. Not today, not here, beside her sister's grave. As he drew closer, she saw that he was carrying her satchel, the same bag she'd brought with her to Boston four months ago. Contemptuously, he threw it at her feet.