Tess Gerritsen - The Bone Garden - A Novel

Norris and Wendell looked at each other. Little Meggie's welfare was, in fact, a matter that worried them both.

— She, too, remains hidden, sir, — said Wendell.

— And her circumstances? —

— Far from ideal, I admit. She's fed and cared for, but in the most unclean surroundings. —

— Then bring her here, gentlemen. I should like to see this mysterious child whom everyone seems so intent upon. I assure you she'll be safe, and in the healthiest of households. —

Again, Norris and Wendell exchanged glances. Could there be any doubt that Meggie would be far better off here than in Hepzibah's filthy hovel?

But Norris said, — Rose would never forgive us if we made such a decision without her. She's the one who cares most about the child. She's the one who must choose. —

— You cede a great deal of authority to a seventeen-year-old-girl. —

— She may be only seventeen. But she deserves respect, sir. Against all the odds, she's survived, and she's kept her niece alive as well. —

— You would stake a child's life on this girl's judgment? —

— Yes. I would. —

— Then your own judgment is in question, Mr. Marshall. A mere girl cannot be trusted with such a grave responsibility! —

A knock on the door made them all turn. Eliza Lackaway, looking concerned, stepped into the room. — Is everything all right, Aldous? —

— Yes, yes. — Grenville released a deep breath. — We're just having a spirited discussion. —

— We could hear you upstairs, which is why I've come down. Charles is awake now and would dearly love to see his friends. — She looked at Wendell and Norris. — He wanted to make sure you didn't leave without saying hello. —

— We wouldn't dream of it, — said Wendell. — We were hoping he'd be up to seeing visitors. —

— He's desperate for visitors. —

— Go. — Grenville brusquely waved the young men out of the room. — Our conversation is at an end. —

Eliza frowned at her brother's rude dismissal of their visitors, but she refrained from commenting on it as she led Norris and Wendell out of the parlor and up the stairs. Instead, she spoke of Charles.

— He wanted to come downstairs to see you, — she said, — but I insisted he stay in bed, as he's not yet steady on his feet. This is still a delicate time in his recovery. —

They reached the top of the stairs, and once again, Norris caught a fleeting glimpse of the Grenville family portraits hanging in the second-floor hallway, a gallery of both young and old, men and women. He recognized Charles among them, posed in a dapper suit, standing beside a desk. His left elbow was propped jauntily on a stack of books with his hand draped over the leather spines, a hand he no longer possessed.

— Here are your friends, darling, — said Eliza.

They found Charles looking pale, but with a smile on his face. His left wrist stump was discreetly hidden beneath the sheets.

— I could hear my uncle's voice booming through the floor, — said Charles. — It sounded like quite a lively discussion downstairs. —

Wendell drew up a chair to sit beside the bed. — Had we known you were awake, we'd have come up sooner. —

Charles tried to sit up, but his mother protested: — No, Charles. You need to rest. —

— Mother, I've been resting here for days and I'm sick of it. I'll have to get up sooner or later. — With a grimace, he leaned forward, and Eliza quickly propped pillows behind his back.

— So how are you, Charlie? — asked Wendell. — Is it still so very painful? —

— Only when the morphine wears off. But I try never to let that happen. — Charles managed a tired smile. — Still, I am better. And look at the bright side. I'll never have to apologize for not learning the piano! —

Eliza sighed. — That's not funny, dear. —

— Mother, would you mind if I had some time alone with my friends? It feels like an eternity since I saw them. —

— I'll take that as a sign you're feeling better. — Eliza stood. — Gentlemen, please don't exhaust him. I'll check on you in a bit, darling. —

Charles waited until his mother had left the room, then he gave an exasperated sigh. — God, she smothers me! —

— Are you really feeling better? — asked Norris.

— My uncle says all the signs are good. I haven't had a fever since Tuesday. Dr. Sewall looked at it this morning and he's satisfied with the wound. — He regarded his bandaged wrist and said, — He saved my life. —

At the mention of Dr. Sewall's name, neither Wendell nor Norris said a word.

— So now, — said Charles, brightening as he looked at his friends. — Tell me the latest. What news is there? —

— We miss you in class, — said Norris.

— Fainting Charlie? No wonder you all miss me. I can always be counted on to make everyone else look brilliant by comparison. —

— You'll have all this time to study, lying here in bed, — said Wendell. — When you come back to class, you'll be the most brilliant of us all. —

— You know I'm not coming back. —

— Of course you are. —

— Wendell, — said Norris quietly. — It's kinder to be honest, don't you think? —

— Really, this will all work out for the better, — Charles said. — I was never meant to be a doctor. Everyone knows it. I have neither the talent nor the interest. It's always been about my uncle's hopes, my uncle's expectations. I'm not like you. Lucky you, always knowing exactly what you wanted to be. —

— And what do you want to be, Charlie? — asked Norris.

— Ask Wendell. He knows. — Charles pointed to his boyhood friend. — We were both members of the Andover Literary Club. He's not the only one prone to bursts of poetic verse. —

Norris gave a startled laugh. — You want to be a poet ? —

— My uncle hasn't accepted it yet, but now he's going to have to. And why shouldn't I choose a literary life? Look at Johnny Greenleaf Whittier. He's already finding success with his poems. And that writer fellow from Salem, Mr. Hawthorne. He's but a few years older than I, and I'll lay odds that he'll soon make a name for himself. Why not pursue what I'm passionate about? — He looked at Wendell. — What did you call it once? The drive to write? —

— The intoxicating pleasure of authorship. —

— Yes, that's it! The intoxicating pleasure! — Charles sighed. — Of course, there's hardly a living to be made at it. —

— Somehow, — said Wendell drily as he looked around the well-appointed bedroom, — I doubt you need to be concerned about that. —

— The problem is that my uncle thinks poems and novels are merely frivolous diversions, with no real significance. —

Wendell gave a sympathetic nod. — Something my own father would say. —

— Aren't you ever tempted to ignore him? To choose the literary life anyway? —

— But I don't have a wealthy uncle. And I've rather taken to medicine, anyway. It suits me. —

— Well, it's never suited me. Now my uncle will have to accept it. — He looked down at his stump. — There's nothing so useless as a one-handed surgeon. —

— Ah, but a one-handed poet! You'll cut a most romantic figure. —

— What lady would want me? — Charles asked plaintively. — Now that I've lost my hand? —

Wendell reached out to grasp his friend's shoulder. — Charlie, listen to me. Any lady who's worth knowing, who's worth loving, won't give one whit about your missing hand. —

The creak of a footstep announced Eliza's return to the room. — Gentlemen, — she said, — I think it's time for him to rest. —

— Mother, we're just catching up. —

— Dr. Sewall said you're not to exert yourself. —