The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Well, this is it. —

— The house looks like it needs a lot of work. —

— I'm fixing it up little by little. —

— Who's helping you? —

— No one. — Her chin tilted up on a note of pride. — I tiled the bathroom floor myself. —

Again, he didn't even seem to register what she'd said. It was their usual one-way conversation. They both spoke, but she was the only one who really listened. Only now was she aware of it.

— Look, I've had a long drive and I'm tired, — she said, turning toward the house. — I'm not really in the mood for company. —

— Why have you been talking about me behind my back? — he asked.

She halted and looked at him. — What? —

— Frankly, I'm surprised, Julia. You never struck me as the bitter type. But I guess divorce brings out a person's real character. —

For the first time, she heard the ugly note of anger in his voice. How had she missed it earlier? Even his posture should have been a clue, with his legs planted apart and his fists balled in his pockets.

— I don't have any idea what you're talking about, — she said.

— Telling people that I was emotionally abusive to you? That I screwed around all during our marriage? —

— I never said that to anyone! Even if it might be true. —

— What kind of shit are you talking about? —

— You were running around, weren't you? Did she know you were married when you started sleeping with her? —

— You so much as whisper that to anyone— —

— You mean, the truth? Our divorce wasn't even final yet, and you two were already picking out your new china. Everyone knows it. — She paused as it suddenly occurred to her what this was all about. Maybe not everyone does know.

— Our marriage was over long before the divorce. —

— Is that the version you're telling everyone? Because it's certainly news to me. —

— You want the brutal truth about what went wrong? All the ways you held me back from what I could have been? —

She sighed. — No, Richard, I don't want to hear it all. I really don't care anymore. —

— Then why the hell are you trying to screw up my wedding? Why are you spreading rumors about me? —

— Who's hearing these rumors? Your girlfriend? Or is it her daddy? Are you afraid he'll find out the truth about his new son-in-law? —

— Just promise me you'll stop it. —

— I never said a word to anyone. I didn't even know about your wedding until Vicky told me. —

He stared at her. Said, suddenly: — Vicky. That bitch. —

— Go home, — she said, and walked away.

— You get Vicky on the phone right now. You tell her to shut up. —

— It's her mouth. I can't control it. —

— Get your fucking sister on the phone! — he shouted.

A dog's noisy barks made her suddenly stop. Turning, she saw Tom standing at the edge of her garden, holding on to the leash as his dog, McCoy, leaped and strained to get free.

— Is everything okay, Julia? — Tom called out.

— Everything's fine, — she said.

Tom moved closer, practically dragged up the slope by the insistent McCoy. He came within a few paces of them. — Are you sure? — he said.

— Look, — snapped Richard, — we're having a private discussion. —

Tom's gaze remained on Julia. — It wasn't so private. —

— It's okay, Tom, — said Julia. — Richard was just leaving. —

Tom paused a moment longer, as though to confirm that the situation was under control. Then he turned and headed back toward the streamside path, pulling the dog behind him.

— Who the hell is that? — said Richard.

— He lives down the road. —

An ugly smile crossed Richard's lips. — Is he the reason you bought this place? —

— Get out of my garden, — she said, and walked toward the house.

As she stepped inside, she heard her phone ringing, but she didn't run to answer it. Her attention was still focused on Richard. She watched through the window as he finally walked out of her backyard.

The answering machine kicked in. — Julia, I've just found something. When you get home, call me and I'll— —

She picked up the phone. — Henry? —

— Oh. You're there. —

— I just got home. —

A pause. — What's wrong? —

For a man who lacked even basic social skills, Henry had an uncanny ability to sniff out her moods. She heard a car engine start and carried the phone to the living room window, where she saw Richard's BMW pull away. — Nothing's wrong, — she said. Not now.

— It was in box number six, — he said.

— What was? —

— The last will and testament of Dr. Margaret Tate Page. It's dated 1890, when she would have been sixty. In it, she leaves her possessions to various grandchildren. One of them is a granddaughter named Aurnia. —

— Aurnia? —

— An unusual name, no? I think this confirms without a doubt that Margaret Tate Page is our baby Meggie, grown up. —

— Then the aunt whom Holmes mentioned in his first letter… —

— Is Rose Connolly. —

Julia went back into her kitchen and looked out at the garden, at the same plot of land that another woman, long dead, had once gazed upon. Who was buried in my garden all those years?

Was it Rose?

Seventeen

1830

THE LIGHT THROUGH the grimy window had faded to little more than dull pewter. There were never enough candles in the workroom, and Rose could scarcely see her stitches as her needle plunged in and out of white gauze. Already she had completed the underslip of pale pink satin, and on her worktable were the silk roses and ribbons yet to be added to the shoulders and the waist. It was a fine gown meant for a ball, and as Rose worked, she imagined how the skirt would rustle when its wearer stepped onto the dance floor, how the satin ribbons would gleam by candlelight at the supper table. There would be wine punch in crystal cups, and creamed oysters and ginger cakes, and you could eat your fill and no one would leave hungry. Though she would never know such an evening, this gown would, and with every stitch she added some small part of herself, a trace of Rose Connolly that would linger among these folds of satin and gauze to swirl in the ballroom.

The light through the window was barely a gleam now, and she struggled to see the thread. Someday, she would look like the other women sewing in this room, their eyes fixed in perpetual squints, their fingers callused and scarred from repeated needle pricks. Even when they stood at the end of the day, their backs remained stooped, as though they were incapable of ever again standing tall.

The needle lanced Rose's finger and she gasped, dropping the gauze on the worktable. She brought her throbbing finger to her mouth and tasted blood, but it was not the pain that vexed her; rather, she was worried that she had stained the white gauze. Holding up the fabric to catch every feeble ray of light, she could just make out, in the fold of the seam, a dark fleck so tiny that it would certainly not be noticed by anyone else. Both my stitches and my blood, she thought, I leave on this gown.

— That will be enough for today, ladies, — the foreman announced.

Rose folded the pieces she had worked on, set them on the table for the next day's labors, and joined the line of women waiting to collect their pay for the week. As they all pulled on cloaks and shawls for the cold walk home, Rose saw a few goodbye waves, a halfhearted nod in her direction. They did not yet know her well, nor did they know how long she would remain among them. Too many other girls had come and gone, and too many other efforts at friendship had gone to waste. So the women watched and waited, sensing perhaps that Rose was not one who would last.