Tess Gerritsen: The Bone Garden: A Novel

But always, she had to return to the horrors. To her sister.

— The bells again, — Aurnia whispered, sunken eyelids flickering. — Which poor soul is it this time? —

Rose glanced down the lying-in ward, to where a curtain had been hastily drawn around one of the beds. Moments ago, she had seen Nurse Mary Robinson set out the small table and lay out the candles and crucifix. Although she couldn't see the priest, she heard him murmuring behind that curtain, and could smell the burning candle wax.

— Through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed… —

— Who? — Aurnia asked again. In her agitation, she struggled to sit up, to see over the row of beds.

— I fear it's Bernadette, — said Rose.

— Oh! Oh, no. —

Rose squeezed her sister's hand. — She may yet live. Have a bit of hope. —

— The baby? What of her baby? —

— The boy is healthy. Didn't you hear him howling in his crib this morning? —

Aurnia settled back against the pillow with a sigh, and the breath she exhaled carried the fetid odor of death, as if already her body was rotting from within, her organs putrefying. — There's that small blessing, then. —

Blessing? That the boy would grow up an orphan? That his mother had spent the last three days whimpering as her belly bloated from childbed fever? Rose had seen far too many such blessings over the past seven days. If this was an example of His benevolence, then she wanted no part of Him. But she uttered no such blasphemy in her sister's presence. It was faith that had sustained Aurnia these past months, through her husband's abuse, through the nights when Rose had heard her weeping softly through the blanket that hung between their beds. What good had faith done poor Aurnia? Where was God all these days as Aurnia labored in vain to give birth to her first child?

If you hear a good woman's prayers, God, why do you let her suffer ?

Rose expected no answer, and none was received. All she heard was the priest's futile murmurings from behind the curtain hiding Bernadette's bed.

— In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, be there quenched in thee all power of the devil, through the laying on of my hands, and through the invocation of the glorious and holy Virgin Mary, Mother of God. —

— Rose? — Aurnia whispered.

— Yes, darling? —

— I'm greatly afeard 'tis time for me as well. —

— Time for what? —

— The priest. Confession. —

— And what small sins could possibly trouble you? God knows your soul, darling. Do you think He doesn't see the goodness there? —

— Oh, Rose, you don't know all the things I'm guilty of! All the things I'm too ashamed to tell you about! I can't die without— —

— Don't talk to me of dying. You can't give up. You have to fight . —

Aurnia responded with a weak smile and reached up to touch her sister's hair. — My little Rosie. Never one to be afraid. —

But Rose was afraid. Terribly afraid that her sister would leave her. Desperately afraid that once Aurnia received the final blessing, she'd stop fighting and give up.

Aurnia closed her eyes and sighed. — Will you stay with me again tonight? —

— Surely I will. —

— And Eben? Hasn't he come? —

Rose's hand tensed around Aurnia's. — Do you really want him here? —

— We're bound to each other, himself and me. For better or worse. —

Mostly for worse, Rose wanted to say, but held her tongue. Eben and Aurnia might be bound in marriage, but it was better that he stayed away, for Rose could scarcely abide the man's presence. For the past four months, she had lived with Aurnia and Eben in a Broad Street boardinghouse, her cot squeezed into a tiny alcove adjoining their bedroom. She had tried to stay out of Eben's way, but as Aurnia had grown heavy and weary with pregnancy, Rose had taken on more and more of her sister's duties in Eben's tailor shop. In the shop's back room, cramped with bolts of muslin and broadcloth, she had spied her brother-in-law's sly glances, had noticed how often he found excuses to brush against her shoulder, to stand too close, inspecting her stitches as she labored over trousers and waistcoats. She had said nothing of this to Aurnia, as she knew Eben would certainly deny it. And in the end, Aurnia would be the one to suffer.

Rose wrung out a cloth over the basin, and as she pressed it to Aurnia's forehead, she wondered: Where has my pretty sister gone? Not even a year of marriage and already the light had left Aurnia's eyes, the sheen gone from her flame-colored hair. All that remained was this listless shell, hair matted with sweat, face a dull mask of surrender.

Weakly, Aurnia lifted her arm from beneath the sheet. — I want you to have this, — she whispered. — Take it now, before Eben does. —

— Take what, darling? —

— This. — Aurnia touched the heart-shaped locket that hung around her neck. It had the genuine gleam of gold, and Aurnia wore it night and day. A gift from Eben, Rose assumed. Once, he had cared enough about his wife to give her such a fancy trinket. Why was he not here when she needed him most?

— Please. Help me take it off. —

— It's not the time for you to be giving it away, — said Rose.

But Aurnia managed to slip off the necklace by herself, and she placed it in her sister's hand. — It's yours. For all the comfort you've given me. —

— I'll keep it safe for you, 'tis all. — Rose placed it into her pocket. — When this is over, darling, when you're holding your own sweet babe, I'll put it back around your neck. —

Aurnia smiled. — If only that could be. —

— It will be. —

The receding tinkle of bells told her the priest had finished his ministrations to the dying Bernadette, and Nurse Robinson quickly scurried over to remove the screen in preparation for the next set of visitors, who had just arrived.

Everyone in the room fell silent with expectation as Dr. Chester Crouch walked onto the maternity ward. Today, Dr. Crouch was accompanied by the hospital's head nurse, Miss Agnes Poole, as well as an entourage of four medical students. Dr. Crouch started his rounds at the first bed, occupied by a woman who had been admitted just that morning after two days of fruitless labor at home. The students stood in a semicircle, watching as Dr. Crouch slipped his arm under the sheet to discreetly examine the patient. She gave a cry of pain as he probed deep between her thighs. His hand reemerged, fingers streaked with blood.

— Towel, — he requested, and Nurse Poole promptly handed him one. Wiping his hand, he said to the four students: — This patient is not progressing. The infant's head is at the same position, and the cervix has not fully dilated. In this particular case, how should her physician proceed? You, Mr. Kingston! Have you an answer? —

Mr. Kingston, a handsome and dapper young man, answered without hesitation, — I believe that ergot in souchong tea is recommended. —

— Good. What else might one do? — He focused on the shortest of the four students, an elf-like fellow with large ears to match. — Mr. Holmes? —

— One could try a cathartic, to stimulate contractions, — Mr. Holmes promptly answered.

— Good. And you, Mr. Lackaway? — Dr. Crouch turned to a fair-haired man whose startled face instantly flushed red. — What else might be done? —

— I— that is— —

— This is your patient. How will you proceed? —

— I would have to think about it. —

— Think about it? Your grandfather and father were both physicians! Your uncle's dean of the medical college. You've had more exposure to the medical arts than any of your classmates. Come now, Mr. Lackaway! Have you nothing to contribute? —