The Bone Garden: A Novel

precarious future. How clear it is that she is Aurnia's child, thought Rose. The same red hair, the same sweetly curving mouth. For two days, Meggie had been nursed on the ward by three new mothers, who had willingly passed the child among them. They had all witnessed Aurnia's agonies, and they knew that but for the whims of providence any one of them might also be a client for the coffin maker.

Rose glanced up as a nurse approached. It was Miss Cabot, who had assumed authority since Nurse Poole's death.

— I'm sorry, Miss Connolly, but it's time to transfer the deceased. —

— She's only just passed on. —

— It's been two hours now, and we have need of the bed. — The nurse handed a small bundle to Rose. — Your sister's belongings. —

Here were the pitifully few possessions that Aurnia had brought with her to the hospital: her soiled night frock and a hair ribbon and the cheap little ring of tin and colored glass that had been Aurnia's good-luck charm since her girlhood. A charm that had, in the end, failed her.

— Those go to the husband, — Nurse Cabot said. — Now she must be moved. —

Rose heard the squeaking of wheels, and she saw the hospital groundsman pushing in a wheeled cart. — I've not had enough time with her. —

— There can be no further delay. The coffin is ready in the courtyard. Have arrangements been made for burial? —

Rose shook her head. Bitterly, she said, — Her husband has arranged for nothing. —

— If the family is unable to pay, there are options for a respectful interment. —

A pauper's burial was what she meant. Crammed into a common grave with nameless peddlers and beggars and thieves.

— How much time do I have to make arrangements? — asked Rose.

Nurse Cabot impatiently glanced up the row of beds, as though considering all the other work she had to do. — By tomorrow noon, — she said, — the wagon will come to pick up the coffin. —

— So little time? —

— Decay does not wait. — The nurse turned and gestured to the man who had stood quietly waiting, and he pushed the cart to the bedside.

— Not yet. Please. — Rose pulled at the man's sleeve, trying to tug him away from Aurnia. — You can't put her out in the cold! —

— Please don't make this difficult, — said the nurse. — If you wish to arrange a private burial, then you'd best see to the arrangements before tomorrow noon, or the city will take her to the South Burying Ground. — She looked at the groundsman. — Remove the deceased. —

He slid burly arms beneath Aurnia's body and lifted her from the bed. As he placed the corpse into the handcart, a sob escaped Rose's throat and she plucked at her sister's gown, at the skirt, now crusted brown with dried blood. But no cries, no pleading, could alter the course of what would happen next. Aurnia, clothed only in linen and gauze, would be wheeled out into the frigid courtyard, fragile skin bumping against splintery wood as the cart rolled across the cobblestones. Would he be gentle as he placed her into the coffin? Or would he merely roll her in, dropping her like a carcass of meat, letting her head thump against bare pine boards?

— Let me stay with her, — she pleaded, and reached for the man's arm. — Let me watch. —

— Ain't nothin' to see, miss. —

— I want to be sure. I want to know she's treated right. —

He gave a shrug. — I treat 'em all right. But you can watch if you want, I don't care. —

— There's another issue, — said Nurse Cabot. — The child. You can't possibly take adequate care of it, Miss Connolly. —

The woman in the next bed said: — They came by when you were out, Rose. Someone from the infant asylum, wantin' to take her. But we wouldn't allow it. The nerve of those people, tryin' to make off with your niece when you weren't even here! —

— Mr. Tate has signed away his parental rights, — said Nurse Cabot. — He, at least, understands what's best for his baby. —

— He doesn't care about the baby, — said Rose.

— You're far too young to raise it yourself. Be sensible, girl! Give it to someone who can. —

In answer, Rose snatched up Meggie from her basket and held her tightly against her breast. — Give her to a stranger? I'd have to be on my deathbed first. —

Nurse Cabot, faced with Rose's clearly insurmountable resistance, at last gave a sigh of exasperation. — Suit yourself. It'll be on your conscience when the child comes to grief. I have no time for this, not tonight, with poor Agnes? — She swallowed hard, then looked at the groundsman, who still waited with Aurnia's body on his cart. — Remove her. —

Still holding tightly to Meggie, Rose followed the man out of the ward, into the courtyard. There, by the yellow glow of his lamp, she stood vigil as Aurnia was laid into the pine box. She watched him pound in the nails, hammer echoing like pistol shots, and with every blow she felt a nail being driven into her own heart. The coffin now sealed, he picked up a lump of charcoal and scrawled on the lid: A. TATE.

— Just so there's no mix-up, — he said, and straightened to look at her. — She'll be here till noon. Make your arrangements by then. —

Rose laid her hand on the lid. I'll find a way, darling. I'll see you properly buried. She wrapped her shawl around both herself and Meggie, then walked out of the hospital courtyard.

She did not know where to go. Certainly not back to the lodging house room that she'd shared with her sister and Eben. Eben was probably there now, sleeping off the rum, and she had no wish to confront him. She'd deal with him in the morning, when he was sober. Her brother-in-law might be heartless, but he was also coldly sensible. He had a business to maintain, and a reputation to uphold. If even a hint of malicious gossip got out, the bell over his tailor shop might fall silent. In the morning, she thought, Eben and I will come to a truce, and he'll take us both in. She is his daughter, after all.

But tonight they had no bed to sleep in.

Her footsteps slowed, stopped. She stood exhausted on the corner. Force of habit had sent her in a familiar direction, and now she gazed up the same street that she had walked earlier that evening. A Dearborn carriage clattered past, pulled by a swaybacked horse with a drooping head. Even so poor a carriage, with its rickety wheels and patched canopy, was an unattainable luxury. She imagined sitting with her weary feet propped up on a little stool, protected from the wind and rain while that carriage bore her like royalty. As it rolled past, she suddenly saw the familiar figure that had been standing right across the street from her.

— Did y'hear the news, Miss Rose? — said Dim Billy. — Nurse Poole's been killed, over at the hospital! —

— Yes, Billy. I know. —

— They said she was slit right up her belly, like this. — He slashed a finger up his abdomen. — Cut off her head with a sword. And her hands, too. Three people saw him do it, and he flew away like a great black bird. —

— Who told you that? —

— Mrs. Durkin did, over at the stable. She heard it from Crab. —

— There's a fool of a boy, Crab is. You're repeating nonsense, and you should stop it. —

He fell silent, and she realized she had hurt his feelings. His feet were dragging like giant anchors across the cobblestones. Beneath his shoved-down cap, enormous ears protruded like drooping saucers. Poor Billy so seldom took offense, it was easy to forget that even he could be wounded.

— I'm sorry, — she said.

— For what, Miss Rose? —

— You were only telling me what you heard. But not everything you hear is the God's truth. Some people lie. Some are the devil's own. You can't trust them all, Billy. —

— How do you know it's a lie? What Crab said? —

She'd never heard such a note of petulance in his voice before, and she was tempted to tell him the truth: that she had been the one who'd found Nurse Poole. No, better to stay silent. Whisper a word in Billy's ear, and by tomorrow who knew how the tale would have changed, and what far-fetched role she would have in it?