Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Billy gave another whimper and rolled toward her, his breath hot and foul on her face. She turned away to escape it and bumped up against old Polly, who gave her an irritated kick. Rose rolled resignedly onto her back and tried to ignore her ever-fuller bladder. She thought hungrily of baby Meggie. Thank God you are not sleeping here in this filthy room, breathing in this foul air. I'll see you grow up healthy, girl, even if my eyes go blind from threading needles, even if my fingers fall off from stitching day and night, sewing gowns for ladies who never need to worry about where their babies will get their milk. She thought of the gown she had completed yesterday, made of white gauze over an underslip of pale pink satin. By now it would have been delivered to the young lady who had ordered it. Miss Lydia Russell, the daughter of the distinguished Dr. Russell. Rose had worked feverishly to complete it on time, since she'd been told that Miss Lydia needed it for the medical college reception tomorrow night, at the home of the dean, Dr. Aldous Grenville. Billy had seen the house, and had described to Rose how grand it was. He'd heard that the butcher had delivered haunches of pork and a large basket of freshly slaughtered geese, and that all day tomorrow Dr. Grenville's ovens would be roasting, baking. Rose imagined the reception table, with its platters of tender meats and cakes and succulent oysters. She imagined the laughter and the candlelight, the doctors in their fine topcoats. She imagined the ribbon-bedecked ladies taking their turns at the piano, each vying to display her skills to the young men assembled there. Would Miss Lydia Russell sit at the piano? Would the skirt that Rose had sewn for her drape nicely across the bench? Would it flatter its wearer's figure and catch the eye of a certain favored gentleman?

Would Norris Marshall be there?

She felt a sudden twinge of jealousy that he might admire the young lady who wore the gown Rose had labored over. She remembered his visit to this lodging house, and how his face had registered dismay as he'd gazed at the louse-infested straw, at the dirty bundles of clothes. She knew that he was a man of only modest means, but he was beyond her reach. Even a farmer's son, if he carried a medical bag, could one day be welcomed into the best parlors in Boston.

The only way Rose would ever set foot in those parlors was with a mop in her hand.

She was jealous of the lady who would one day wed him. She wanted to be the one to comfort him, the one he smiled at every morning. But I never will be, she thought. When he looks at me, he sees only a seamstress or a kitchen girl. Never a wife.

Once again Billy turned over, this time bumping right up against her. She tried to push him away, but it was like trying to roll a limp sack of flour. Resigned, she sat up. Her full bladder could no longer be ignored. The piss bucket was on the far end of the room, and she dreaded stumbling her way through the dark, across all those sleeping bodies. Better to take the stairs, which were much closer, and go outside to pee.

She pulled on her shoes and cloak, crawled across Billy's sleeping body, and made her way down the stairs. Outside, the slap of cold wind made her suck in a startled breath. She wasted no time taking care of her needs. Glancing up and down Fishery Alley, she saw no one, and squatted right there on the cobblestones. With a sigh of relief, she stepped back into the lodging house and was about to climb the stairs when she heard the landlord call out:

— Who's there? Who's come in? —

Peeking through his doorway, she caught sight of Mr. Porteous, sitting with his feet propped up on a stool. He was half blind and always short of breath, and it was only with the help of his slovenly daughter that he managed to keep up the establishment. Not that there was much to do except collect the rent, dole out fresh straw once a month, and in the morning serve a bit of porridge, more often than not infested with mealworms. Otherwise, Porteous ignored the lodgers, and they ignored him.

— It's me, — said Rose.

— Come in here, girl. —

— I'm on my way upstairs. —

Porteous's daughter appeared in the doorway. — There's a gentleman here to see you. Says he knows you. —

Norris Marshall has come back was her first reaction. But when she stepped into the room and saw the visitor standing by the fireplace, bitter disappointment silenced any greeting from her lips.

— Hello, Rose, — said Eben. — I've had a hard time tracking you down. —

She owed her brother-in-law no pleasantries. Bluntly she asked, — What are you doing here? —

— I've come to make amends. —

— The person you should make amends to is no longer here to forgive you. —

— You have every right to reject my apologies. I'm ashamed of how I behaved, and every night I lie awake thinking of all the ways I could have been a better husband to your sister. I did not deserve her. —

— No, you did not. —

He came toward her, arms outstretched, but she did not trust his eyes; she never had. — This is the only way I know how to make it up to Aurnia, — he said. — By being a good brother to you, a good father to my daughter. By taking care of you both. Go, fetch the baby, Rose. Let's go home. —

Old Porteous and his daughter both watched with rapt expressions. They spent most of their lives confined to this gloomy front room, and this was probably the best entertainment they'd been treated to in weeks.

— Your old bed is waiting for you, — said Eben. — And a crib, for the baby. —

— I'm paid up here for the month, — said Rose.

— Here? — Eben gave a laugh. — You can't possibly prefer this place! —

— Now then, Mr. Tate, — cut in Porteous, suddenly realizing he'd just been insulted.

— How are your accommodations here, Rose? — asked Eben. — Have you your own room, with a fine feather bed? —

— I give them fresh straw, sir, — said Porteous's daughter. — Every month. —

— Oh! Fresh straw! Now there's something to commend this establishment. —

The woman looked uneasily at her father. It had managed to penetrate even her thick skull that Eben's comments were not complimentary.

Eben took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was calmer. Reasonable. — Rose, please consider what I'm offering. If you're not happy, you can always return here. —

She thought of the room upstairs, where fourteen lodgers lay wedged together, where the air smelled of piss and unwashed bodies, and your neighbor's breath reeked of rotting teeth. The boardinghouse where Eben lived was not grand, but it was clean, and she would not be sleeping on straw.

And he was her family. He was all she had left.

— Go up and fetch her. Let's go. —

— She's not here. —

He frowned. — Then where is she? —

— She stays with a wet nurse. But my bag is upstairs. — She turned toward the steps.

— Unless it has something of value, leave it! Let's not waste time. —

She thought of the fetid room upstairs, and suddenly had no desire to return to it. Not now, not ever. Still, she was sorry to leave without telling Billy.

She looked at Porteous. — Please tell Billy to bring my bag 'round tomorrow. I'll pay him for it. —

— The idiot boy? Does he know where to go? — asked Porteous.

— The tailor shop. He knows where it is. —

Eben took her arm. — The night gets colder by the hour. —

Outside, snowflakes had begun to swirl down from the darkness, fine, stinging flakes that settled treacherously onto cobblestones already slick with ice.

— Which way to this wet nurse? — Eben asked.

— 'Tis a few streets over. — She pointed. — Not far. —