The Bone Garden: A Novel

— And you know how difficult it is to find decent help these days in Providence. Aurnia was hardly a jewel, but at least she knew how to keep our wardrobe in order. —

Wendell was just about to step out of the parlor when he suddenly stopped. Turning, he stared at Gwen, who prattled on.

— It took us a whole month to find someone suitable to replace her. By then it was already June, and time to pack up for our summer house in Weston. —

— Her name was Aurnia? — said Wendell.

Gwen looked around, as though wondering who could possibly have spoken to her.

— Your chambermaid, — he said. — Tell me about her. —

Gwen coolly met his gaze. — Why on earth would this interest you, Mr. Holmes? —

— Was she young? Pretty? —

— She was about our age, wouldn't you say, Kitty? As for pretty— well, that depends on one's standards. —

— And her hair— what color was it? —

— Why on earth… —

— What color? —

Gwen shrugged. — Red. Quite striking, really, though these flame-haired girls are all so prone to freckles. —

— Do you know where she went? Where she is now? —

— Why should we? The silly girl didn't say a word to us. —

Kitty said, — I think Mother might know. Only she won't tell us, because it's not the sort of thing one talks about in polite company. —

Gwen looked accusingly at her sister. — Why didn't you share this with me before? I tell you everything! —

Edward said, — Wendell, you seem uncommonly concerned about a mere servant. —

Wendell returned to his chair and sat down, facing the clearly flummoxed Welliver sisters. — I want you to tell me everything you can remember about this girl, starting with her full name. Was it Aurnia Connolly? —

Kitty and Gwen looked at each other in astonishment.

— Why, Mr. Holmes, — said Kitty. — However did you know? —

— There's a gentleman here to see you, — said Mrs. Furbush.

Rose looked up from the nightshirt that she had been mending. At her feet was the basket of garments that she had labored over that day, Mrs. Lackaway's skirt with the sagging hem, Dr. Grenville's trousers with the frayed pocket, and all the shirts and blouses and waistcoats needing buttons reattached and seams reinforced. Since returning to the household that morning, she had focused all her grief on a frenzy of mending and stitching, the one skill with which she could repay their kindness to her. All afternoon, she had sat hunched in this corner of the kitchen, sewing in silence, her misery so plainly written on her face that the other servants had respectfully allowed her her privacy. No one had disturbed her, nor even tried to speak to her. Until now.

— The gentleman's at the back door, — said Mrs. Furbush.

Rose placed the nightshirt in her basket and stood. As she crossed the kitchen, she could feel the housekeeper watching her curiously, and when she reached the door, she understood why.

Wendell Holmes was standing in the servants' entrance, a strange place for a gentleman to come calling.

— Mr. Holmes, — said Rose. — Why do you come the back way? —

— I need to speak to you. —

— Do come inside. Dr. Grenville is at home. —

— This is a private matter, for your ears only. May we speak outside?'

She glanced over her shoulder and saw the housekeeper watching them. Without a word, she stepped out, pulling the kitchen door shut behind her. She and Wendell moved into the side yard, where bare trees threw skeletal shadows in the cold light of sunset.

— Do you know where Norris is? — he asked. When she hesitated, he said, — This is urgent, Rose. If you know, you must tell me. —

She shook her head. — I promised. —

— Promised whom? —

— I cannot break my word. Even for you. —

— Then you do know where he is? —

— He's safe, Mr. Holmes. He's in good hands. —

He grasped her by the shoulders. — Was it Dr. Grenville? Is he the one who arranged the escape? —

She stared into Wendell's frantic eyes. — We can trust him, can't we? —

Wendell gave a groan. — Then it may already be too late for Norris. —

— Why are you saying this? You're scaring me. —

— Grenville will never let Norris live to stand trial. Too many secrets would come out, damaging secrets that will destroy this household. — He glanced up, at the imposing home of Aldous Grenville.

— But Dr. Grenville has always defended Norris. —

— And do you wonder why a man of such influence would stake his reputation defending a student with no name, no family connections? —

— Because Norris is innocent! And because— —

— He did it to keep him out of the courtroom. I think he wants Norris tried in the court of public opinion, and on the front page of newspapers. There, he's already been found guilty. All it takes is a bounty hunter to commit the execution. You do know there's a bounty on his head? —

She swallowed back tears. — Yes. —

— It will all end quite conveniently. When the West End Reaper is tracked down and killed. —

— Why would Dr. Grenville do this? Why would he turn against Norris? —

— There's no time to explain it now. Just tell me where Norris is, so I can warn him. —

She stared at him, not knowing what to do. She'd never doubted Wendell Holmes before, but now, it seemed, she must doubt everyone, even those whom she had trusted most.

— At nightfall, — she said, — he leaves Medford and travels north, on the Winchester road. —

— His destination? —

— The town of Hudson. The mill house, on the river. There's a carved pelican on the gate. —

He nodded. — With any luck, I'll catch up with him long before he reaches Hudson. — He turned to leave, then halted and looked back at her. — Not a word to Grenville, — he warned. — Above all, don't tell anyone where the child is. She must remain hidden. —

She watched him run out of the side yard, and an instant later heard horse's hooves clatter away. Already, the sun was low in the sky, and within the hour Norris would set out along the Winchester road. What better time than after dark to spring an ambush on a lone traveler?

Hurry, Wendell. Be the one to reach him first.

A gust swept the side yard, twirling dead leaves and dust, and she squinted against the sting. Through narrowed eyelids, she caught a glimpse of something moving across the walkway. The wind died, and she stared at a dog that had wandered in through the Beacon Street gate. The dog sniffed at the bushes, pawed around in the ashes that had been sprinkled across the slippery walkway. Then it lifted a leg, relieved itself against a tree, and headed back toward the gate. As she watched it trot out of the yard, she suddenly realized that she had lived through this moment before. Or a moment very much like it.

But it had been at night. With that image came a gnawing sense of sadness, a remembrance of grief so terrible that she wanted to shove the memory away, back into the dark hole of forgotten pain. But she held on to the memory, stubbornly tugging on that fragile thread, until it led her back to the moment in time when she had stood at a window, holding her newborn niece and looking out into the night. She remembered a horse and phaeton arriving in the hospital courtyard. She remembered Agnes Poole stepping out from the shadows to speak to the phaeton's occupant.

And she remembered one more detaiclass="underline" the jittery horse, its hooves clattering nervously as a dog had trotted past. A large dog, silhouetted against the glossy cobblestones.