The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Has that awful man finally left? — she asked.

— I'm afraid it looks quite grim for Norris. — Grenville sighed and sank into a chair by the fire.

— Is there nothing you can do to help him? — asked Eliza.

— This has gone beyond even my influence. —

— He counts on you, Dr. Grenville! — said Rose. — If both you and Mr. Holmes defend him, they'll be forced to listen. —

— Wendell will testify in his defense? — asked Eliza.

— He's been in Norris's room. He knows that jar wasn't there. Or the mask, either. — She looked at Grenville. — It's all my fault. It's all to do with me, with Meggie. The people who want her, they'd do anything. —

— Including send an innocent man to the gallows? — said Eliza.

— That's the least of it. — Rose approached Grenville, her hands outstretched in a plea for him to believe her. — The night Meggie was born, there were two nurses and a doctor in the room. Now they're all dead, because they knew my sister's secret. They learned the name of Meggie's father. —

— A name you've never heard, — said Grenville.

— I wasn't in the room. The baby was crying, so I carried her out. Later, Agnes Poole demanded I give her up, but I refused. — Rose swallowed and said softly. — And I've been hunted ever since. —

— So it's the child they want? — said Eliza. She looked at her brother. — She needs protection. —

Grenville nodded. — Where is she, Miss Connolly? —

— Hidden, sir. In a safe place. —

— They could find her, — he said.

— I'm the only one who knows where she is. — She looked him in the eye and said, evenly: — And no one can make me tell. —

He met her gaze, taking her measure. — I don't doubt you for an instant. You've kept her safe from harm this long. You, better than anyone, know what's best. — Abruptly he stood. — I must go out. —

— Where are you going? — Eliza asked.

— There are people I need to consult in this matter. —

— Will you be home for supper? —

— I don't know. — He walked into the hallway and pulled on his greatcoat.

Rose followed him. — Dr. Grenville, what shall I do? How can I help? —

— Remain here. — He looked at his sister. — Eliza, see to the girl's needs. While she's under our roof, she must not come to harm. — He walked out, and an icy gust of wind blew in, stinging Rose's eyes. She blinked away sudden tears.

— You don't have anywhere to go, do you? —

Rose turned to Eliza. — No, ma'am. —

— Mrs. Furbush can make a bed for you, in the kitchen. — Eliza's gaze swept Rose's patched dress. — And a change of clothes, certainly. —

— Thank you. — Rose cleared her throat. — Thank you for everything. —

— My brother's the one you need to thank, — said Eliza. — I only hope this business does not ruin him. —

It was the grandest house Rose had ever set foot in, certainly the grandest house she'd ever slept in. The kitchen was warm, the coals in the fireplace still aglow and throwing off heat. Her blanket was of heavy wool, not like the threadbare cloak with which she'd wrapped herself on so many cold nights, a sorry old rag that smelled of every lodging house, every filthy straw bed she'd ever slept in. The briskly efficient housekeeper, Mrs. Furbush, had insisted on tossing that cloak, along with the rest of Rose's worn clothing, into the fire. As for the girl herself, Mrs. Furbush had called for soap and a great deal of hot water, because Dr. Grenville insisted that a clean household was a healthy household. Now bathed and wearing a fresh gown, Rose lay in unaccustomed comfort in a cot near the fireplace. She knew that Meggie, too, was warm and safe tonight.

But what of Norris? Where did he sleep tonight? Was he cold and hungry? Why had she heard no news?

Though the supper hour had come and gone, Dr. Grenville had not returned. Rose had waited all evening with her ear cocked, but had heard neither his voice nor his footstep. — It's the nature of his profession, girl, — Mrs. Furbush had said. — A doctor can't be expected to work regular hours. Patients are always bringing him out into the night, and there are times he doesn't come home till dawn. —

Long after the rest of the household had retired, Dr. Grenville still had not returned. And Rose lay awake. The coals in the hearth had lost their glow and were fading to ash. Through the kitchen window, she could see a tree, silhouetted by moonlight, and could hear the branches sway in the wind.

And now she heard something else: footsteps creaking on the servants' stairway.

She lay still, listening as the creaks drew closer, as the footsteps moved into the kitchen. One of the maids, perhaps, here to restoke the fire. She could just make out the shadowy figure, slipping through the darkness. Then she heard a chair tip over, and a voice muttered: — Blast it all! —

A man.

Rose rolled out of bed and scrambled to the hearth, where she fumbled in the darkness to light a candle. As the flame flared to life, she saw the intruder was a young man in a nightshirt, his fair hair in a tangled swirl from sleep. He froze at the sight of her, clearly as startled to see her as she was to see him.

It's the young master, she thought. Dr. Grenville's nephew, whom she'd been told was recuperating upstairs in his bedroom. A bandage encased the stump of his left wrist, and he swayed, unsteady on his feet. She set down the candle and ran forward to catch him as he sagged sideways.

— I'm all right, I'm fine, — he insisted.

— You should not be up, Mr. Lackaway. — She righted the chair that he had just overturned in the darkness and gently lowered him into it. — I'll fetch your mother. —

— No, don't. Please! —

That desperate entreaty made her stop.

— She'll only fuss at me, — he said. — I'm tired of being fussed at. I'm tired of being trapped in my room, just because she's terrified I'll catch a fever. — He looked up at her with pleading eyes. — Don't wake her. Just let me sit here for a while. Then I'll go back up to bed, I promise. —

She sighed. — As you please. But you shouldn't be up all alone. —

— I'm not alone. — He managed a weak smile. — You're here. —

She felt his gaze follow her as she crossed to the hearth to stir the coals back to life and add more wood. Flames leaped up, throwing their welcome warmth into the room.

— You're that girl all the maids are talking about, — he said.

She turned to look at him. The rekindled fire cast new light on his face, and she saw finely etched features, a refined brow and lips that were almost girlish. Illness had sapped its color, but it was a handsome, sensitive face, more boy than man.

— You're Norris's friend, — he said.

She nodded. — My name's Rose. —

— Well, Rose. I'm his friend, too. And from what I hear, he needs every friend he can get. —

The gravity of what Norris faced suddenly weighed so heavily on her shoulders that Rose sank into a chair at the table. — I'm so afraid for him, — she whispered.

— My uncle knows people. People of influence. —

— Even your uncle has his doubts now. —

— But you don't? —

— Not a one. —

— How can you be so sure of him? —

She looked Charles straight in the eye. — I know his heart. —

— Truly? —

— You think I'm a moonstruck girl. —

— It's just that one reads so many poems about devotion. But seldom do we actually encounter it. —

— I wouldn't waste my devotion on a man I didn't believe in. —

— Well, Rose, if ever I face the gallows, I'll count myself lucky to have a friend like you. —