Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Eben picked up the pace, urging her far too quickly on such precarious ground, and she had to cling to his arm as her shoes slipped and skated. Why such haste, she wondered, when a warm room assuredly waited for them? Why, after that impassioned appeal for her forgiveness, had he suddenly fallen silent? He'd called Meggie the baby, she thought. What kind of father doesn't even know his own daughter's name? As they drew closer to Hepzibah's door, she grew more and more uneasy. She'd never trusted Eben before; why should she trust him now?

She did not stop at Hepzibah's building, but walked straight past it and turned down another street. Kept leading Eben away from Meggie as she considered why he had really come for her tonight. His grasp offered no warmth, no reassurance, only the cold grip of control.

— Where is this place? — he demanded.

— A distance, still. —

— You said it was close by. —

— It's so late, Eben! Must we fetch her now? We'll wake the household. —

— She's my daughter. She belongs with me. —

— And how will you feed her? —

— It's all arranged. —

— What do you mean, all arranged ? —

He gave her a hard shake. — Just take me to her! —

Rose had no intention of doing so. Not now, not until she knew what he really wanted. Instead, she continued to lead him away, leaving Meggie far behind them.

Abruptly Eben jerked her to a stop. — What game are you playing with me, Rose? We've gone twice past this very street! —

— 'Tis dark, and these alleys confuse me. If we could wait until morning— —

— Don't lie to me! —

She yanked away from him. — A few weeks ago, you cared nothing about your daughter. Now suddenly you can't wait to get your hands on her. Well, I won't give her up now, not to you. And there's nothing you can do to make me. —

— Maybe nothing I can do, — he says. — But there's someone else who might convince you. —

— Who? —

In answer, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up the street. With Rose stumbling behind him, he headed toward the harbor. — Stop struggling! I'm not going to hurt you. —

— Where are we going? —

— To a man who could change your life. If you're nice to him. — He led her to a building she did not know and knocked on the door.

It opened, and a middle-aged gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles peered out at them over a flickering lamp. — I was about to give up and leave, Mr. Tate, — he said.

Eben gave Rose a shove, forcing her ahead of him over the threshold. She heard the bolt slide home behind her.

— Where is the child? — the man asked.

— She won't tell me. I thought you could convince her. —

— So this is Rose Connolly, — the man said, and she heard London in his voice. An Englishman. He set down the lamp and looked her over with a thoroughness that alarmed her, though he himself was not a particularly alarming sort of man. He was shorter than Eben, and his thick side-whiskers were mostly gray. His topcoat was fashionably cut and well fitted, of fine fabric. Though not physically intimidating, his gaze was coolly formidable and penetrating.

— So much fuss over this mere girl. —

— She's cleverer than she looks, — said Eben.

— Let's hope so. — The man started down a hallway. — This way, Mr. Tate. We'll see what she can tell us. —

Eben took her arm, his firm grip leaving no doubt that she would go where he directed her. They followed the man into a room where she saw roughly made furniture and a floor scarred by gouges. The shelves were lined with tattered ledgers, the pages yellowed from disuse. In the hearth were only cold ashes. The room did not match the man, whose tailored coat and air of prosperity were better suited to one of the fine homes on Beacon Hill.

Eben pushed her into a chair. It took only one dark look from him to get his message across: You will sit there. You will not move .

The older man set the lamp down on a desk, stirring up a puff of dust. — You've been in hiding, Miss Connolly, — he said. — Why? —

— What makes you think I've been hiding? —

— Why else would you call yourself Rose Morrison? That is, I believe, the false name you gave to Mr. Smibart when he hired you as a seamstress. —

She shot a glare at Eben. — I didn't wish to encounter my brother-in-law again. —

— That's why you changed your name? It had nothing to do with this? — The Englishman reached into his pocket and pulled out something that gleamed in the lamplight. It was Aurnia's necklace. — I believe you pawned this several weeks ago. Something that did not belong to you. —

She stared at him in silence.

— So you did steal it. —

She could not let that charge go unanswered. — Aurnia gave it to me! —

— And you so blithely rid yourself of it? —

— She deserved a decent burial. I had no other way to pay for it. —

The Englishman glanced at Eben. — You didn't tell me that. She had a good reason to pawn it. —

— It still wasn't hers, — said Eben.

— And it sounds like it wasn't yours, either, Mr. Tate. — The man looked at Rose. — Did your sister ever tell you where she got this necklace? —

— I used to think it was Eben. But he's too cheap. —

The Englishman ignored Eben's glower and kept his focus on Rose. — So she never told you where she got it? — he asked.

— Why does it matter? — she shot back.

— This is a valuable piece of jewelry, Miss Connolly. Only someone of means could have afforded it. —

— Now you'll claim Aurnia stole it. You're with the Night Watch, aren't you? —

— No. —

— Who are you? —

Eben gave her a hard slap on the shoulder. — Show some respect! —

— For a man who won't even tell me his name? —

For her impudence, Eben raised his hand to deliver another blow, but the Englishman cut in: — There's no need for violence, Mr. Tate! —

— But you see what kind of girl she is! That's what I've had to put up with. —

The Englishman moved toward Rose, his gaze boring into her face. — I'm not with the local authorities, if that's any reassurance. —

— Then why do you ask me these questions? —

— I work for a client who shall remain nameless. I'm charged with the gathering of information. Information that, I'm afraid, only you can provide. —

She gave a disbelieving laugh. — I'm a seamstress, sir. Ask me about buttons or bows, and I'll have an answer for you. Other than that, I don't see how I can help. —

— But you can help me. You're the only one. — He moved in so close she could smell sweet tobacco on his breath. — Where is your sister's child? Where is the baby? —

— He doesn't deserve her. — She glanced at Eben. — What sort of father signs away the rights to his own daughter? —

— Just tell me where she is. —

— She's safe and she's fed. That's all he needs to know. Instead o' paying a pretty penny for a fancy lawyer, he could've bought his girl milk and a warm crib. —

— Is that what you think? That I'm in Mr. Tate's employ? —

— Aren't you? —

The Englishman gave a startled laugh. — Heavens, no! — he said, and she saw the angry flush of Eben's face. — I work for someone else, Miss Connolly. Someone who wants very much to know where the child is. — He brought his face even closer, and she drew away, her back pressing into the chair. — Where is the baby? —

Rose sat silent, suddenly thinking of that day in St. Augustine's cemetery, when Aurnia's grave had yawned at her feet. Mary Robinson had appeared like a ghost from the mist, her face pale and taut, her gaze ceaselessly scanning the graveyard. There are people inquiring about the child. Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.