Tess Gerritsen: The Bone Garden: A Novel

Constable Lyons rose from his chair. — I leave you now, Aldous. As for Eliza, this is your family, and how much you choose to acknowledge is your decision. At the moment, the public's eyes are on Mr. Jack Burke. He is their current monster. But soon, I'm sure, there'll be another one to catch their attention. This much I know about the public: Their hunger for monsters is insatiable. — He nodded farewell and left the house.

After a moment, Wendell, too, rose to depart. He had intruded upon the household far too long, and had spoken his mind too bluntly. So it was with a note of apology in his voice that he took his leave of Dr. Grenville, who did not stir but remained in his chair, staring at the ashes.

Rose followed Wendell into the foyer. — You have been a true friend, — she said. — Thank you, for all that you've done. —

They embraced, and there was no awkwardness despite the wide gulf of class that separated them. Norris Marshall had brought them together; now grief over his death would forever bind them. Wendell was about to step out the door when he paused and looked back at her.

— How did you know? — he said. — When Norris himself did not? —

— That Dr. Grenville is his father? —

— Yes. —

She took his hand. — Come with me. —

She led him up the stairs to the second floor. In the dim hallway she paused to light a lamp and carry it toward one of the portraits hanging on the wall. — Here, — she said. — This is how I knew. —

He stared at the painting of a dark-haired young man who stood beside a desk, his hand resting atop a human skull. His brown eyes gazed straight at Wendell, as though in direct challenge.

— It's a portrait of Aldous Grenville when he was nineteen years old, — said Rose. — That's what Mrs. Furbush told me. —

Wendell could not tear his gaze from the painting. — I did not see it until now. —

— I saw it at once. And I had no doubt. — Rose stared at the young man's portrait, and her lips curved into a sad smile. — You always recognize the one you love. —

DR. GRENVILLE'S fine carriage took them west on the Belmont road, past farmhouses and wintry fields that were now familiar to Rose. It was a pitilessly beautiful afternoon, and the snow glittered beneath clear skies just as it had glittered when she had walked this road only two weeks ago. You walked beside me then, Norrie. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe you are here with me now.

— Is it much farther? — asked Grenville.

— Only a bit, sir. — Rose opened her eyes and blinked at the empty glare of the sun. And the hard truth: But I will never see you again. And I will miss you every day of my life.

— This is where he grew up, isn't it? — said Grenville. — On this road. —

She nodded. — Soon we'll come to Heppy Comfort's farm. She had a lame calf that she brought into the house. And then she grew so fond of it, she could never slaughter it. Next door to her there'll be Ezra Hutchinson's farm. His wife died of typhus. —

— How do you know all this? —

— Norris told me. — And she would never forget. As long as she lived, she would remember every word, every moment.

— The Marshall farm is on this road? —

— We're not going to Isaac Marshall's farm. —

— Then where? —

She peered ahead at the tidy farmhouse that had just come into view. — I see the house now. —

— Who lives there? —

A man who was kinder and more generous to Norris than his own father.

As the carriage came to a stop, the farmhouse door opened, and elderly Dr. Hallowell emerged on the porch. By the bleak expression on his face, Rose knew that he had already learned of Norris's death. He came forward to help her and Dr. Grenville from the carriage. As they climbed the steps, Rose was startled to see yet another man emerge from the house.

It was Isaac Marshall, looking infinitely older than he had only weeks before.

The three men who stood on the porch had been brought together by grief over one young man, and words did not come easily to any of them. In silence they regarded one another, the two men who had watched Norris grow up, and the one man who should have.

Rose slipped past them into the house, drawn by what the men's ears were not attuned to: a baby's soft cooing. She followed the sound into a room where gray-haired Mrs. Hallowell sat rocking Meggie.

— I've come back for her, — said Rose.

— I knew you would. — The woman looked up with hopeful eyes as she handed over the baby. — Please tell me we'll see her again! Tell me we can be part of her life. —

— Oh, you will, ma'am, — said Rose, smiling. — And so will everyone who loves her. —

The three men all turned as Rose came out onto the porch, carrying the baby. At the instant Aldous Grenville gazed for the first time into his daughter's eyes, Meggie smiled up at him, as though in recognition.

— Her name is Margaret, — said Rose.

— Margaret, — he said softly. And he took the child into his arms.

The present

JULIA CARRIED her suitcase downstairs and left it by the front door. Then she went into the library, where Henry was sitting among the boxes, now ready to be transported to the Boston Athenaeum. Together, she and Henry had organized all the documents and resealed the boxes. The letters from Oliver Wendell Holmes, however, they had carefully set aside for safekeeping. Henry had laid them out on the table, and he sat reading them yet again, for at least the hundredth time.

— It pains me to give these up, — he said. — Perhaps I should keep them. —

— You already promised the Athenaeum you'd donate them. —

— I could still change my mind. —

— Henry, they need to be properly cared for. An archivist will know how to preserve them. And won't it be wonderful to share this story with the whole world? —

Henry slouched stubbornly in his chair, eyeing the papers like a miser who won't give up his fortune. — These mean too much to me. This is personal. —

She went to the window and gazed at the sea. — I know what you mean, — she said softly. — It's become personal for me, too. —

— Are you still dreaming about her? —

— Every night. It's been weeks now. —

— What was last night's dream? —

— It was more…impressions. Images. —

— What images? —

— Bolts of cloth. Ribbons and bows. I'm holding a needle in my hand and sewing. — She shook her head and laughed. — Henry, I don't even know how to sew. —

— But Rose did. —

— Yes, she did. Sometimes I think she's alive again, and speaking to me. By reading the letters, I've brought her soul back. And now I'm having her memories. I'm reliving her life. —

— The dreams are that vivid? —

— Right down to the color of the thread. Which tells me I've spent entirely too much time thinking about her. — And what her life could have been . She looked at her watch and turned to him. — I should probably head down to the ferry. —

— I'm sorry you have to leave. When will you come back to see me? —

— You can always come down to see me. —

— Maybe when Tom gets back? I'll visit you both on the same trip. — He paused. — So tell me. What did you think of him? —

— Tom? —

— He's eligible, you know. —

She smiled. — I know, Henry. —

— He's also very picky. I've watched him go through a succession of girlfriends, and not a single one lasted. You could be the exception. But you have to let him know you're interested. He thinks you're not. —

— Is that what he told you? —