The Bone Garden: A Novel

A freezing mist clung to the ground of St. Augustine's cemetery, hiding the legs of the mourners who seemed to float, unattached to the earth, their torsos drifting only on fog. There are so many here today, thought Rose; but their sorrow was not for Aurnia. She watched the procession trail behind a small coffin that skimmed above the mist, and she could hear every sniffle, every sob, the sounds of heartbreak trapped and magnified, as though the air itself were weeping. The child's funeral moved past, black skirts and cloaks churning the mist into silvery whirlpools. No one glanced at Rose. Holding Meggie in her arms, she stood in a forlorn corner of the cemetery, beside the newly turned mound of earth. To them, she was but a ghost in the fog, her grief invisible to those blinded by their own.

— She's 'bout deep enough, miss. —

Rose turned to look at the two gravediggers. The older one dragged a sleeve across his face, leaving streaks of mud on his cheek, where the skin was deeply seamed from years of exposure to sun and wind. Poor man, she thought, you're too old to still be wielding a shovel, to be hacking away at the frozen ground. But we all need to eat. And what would she be doing when she was his age, when she could no longer see well enough to thread her needle?

— Will there be no one else to see her laid to rest? — he asked.

— No one else, — she said, and looked down at Aurnia's coffin. This was Rose's loss, hers alone, and she was too selfish to share it with anyone. She fought the sudden impulse to tear off the lid, to gaze once again on her sister's face. What if, by some miracle, she was not dead? What if Aurnia were to stir and open her eyes? Rose reached toward the coffin, then forced her hand back to her side. There are no miracles, she thought. And Aurnia is gone.

— Shall we finish, then? —

She swallowed her tears and gave a nod.

The old man turned to his partner, a blank-faced teenager who'd shoveled with lackadaisical effort, and who now stood slouched and indifferent. — Help me put her in. —

Ropes creaked as they lowered the coffin, dislodging clots of dirt that thudded into the hole. I have paid for a grave all your own, darling, thought Rose. A private place of rest that you'll not need to share with some husband who paws you, some beggar who stinks. For once you'll sleep alone, a luxury that escaped you while you lived.

The coffin gave a jolt as it hit bottom. The boy had let his attention wander, and had played out the rope too quickly. Rose caught the look the old man gave the boy, a look that said, I'll deal with you later. The boy didn't even notice, and simply yanked his rope out of the hole. It came slithering up like a cobra, and the end slapped smartly against the pine box. Their task almost completed, the boy worked with more alacrity now as they filled the hole. Perhaps he was thinking of his lunch by a warm fire, and how all that kept him from it was this one grave. He had not seen the occupant of the coffin, nor did he seem to care. All that mattered was that this hole must be filled, and so he put his back into it, shovel after shovel full of soggy earth landing on the coffin.

At the other end of the cemetery, where the child was being laid to rest, a loud wail rose from the mourners, a woman's cry so ragged with pain that Rose turned and looked toward the other grave. Only then did she see the ghostly silhouette approaching them through the fog. The figure emerged from its veil of mist, and Rose recognized the face peering out from beneath the hood of the cape. It was Mary Robinson, the young nurse from the hospital. Mary paused and looked over her shoulder, as though sensing that someone was behind her, but Rose saw no one except the other mourners, who stood like a circle of statues around the child's grave.

— I didn't know where else to find you, — said Mary. — I'm sorry for your sister. God rest her soul. —

Rose wiped her eyes, smearing tears and mist across her cheek. — You were kind to her, Miss Robinson. Far kinder than? — She stopped, not wanting to invoke Nurse Poole's name. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead.

Mary moved closer. As Rose blinked away tears, she focused on the young nurse's tense face, her pinched eyes. Mary leaned in, and her voice dropped to a whisper, her words almost lost in the scrape of the gravediggers' shovels.

— There are people inquiring about the child. —

Rose gave a weary sigh and looked down at her niece, who lay serene in her arms. Little Meggie had inherited Aurnia's sweet temperament, and she was content to lie quietly and study the world with her wide eyes. — I've given them my answer. She stays with her own people. With me. —

— Rose, they're not from the infant asylum. I promised Miss Poole that I'd say nothing, but now I cannot remain silent. The night the baby was born, after you left the room, your sister told us? — Suddenly Mary fell still, her gaze riveted not on Rose, but on something in the distance.

— Miss Robinson? —

— Keep the child safe, — Mary said. — Keep her hidden. —

Rose turned to see what Mary was looking at, and when she saw Eben stride out of the fog, her throat went dry. Though her hands were shaking, she stood her ground, resolved not to be bullied. Not today, not here, beside her sister's grave. As he drew closer, she saw that he was carrying her satchel, the same bag she'd brought with her to Boston four months ago. Contemptuously, he threw it at her feet.

— I took the liberty of packing your belongings, — he said. — Since you are no longer welcome at Mrs. O'Keefe's establishment. —

She picked up the bag from the mud, her face flushing with outrage at the thought of Eben pawing through her clothes, her private possessions.

— And don't come begging for my charity, — he added.

— Was that what you forced on me last night? Charity? —

Straightening, she met his gaze, and felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sight of his bruised lip. Did I do that? Good for me. Her cold retort clearly enraged him, and he took a step closer, then glanced at the two gravediggers still at work filling in the hole. He halted, his hand balled in a fist. Go ahead, she thought. Hit me, while I hold your daughter in my arms. Let the world see what kind of coward you are.

His lips peeled back, like an animal baring its teeth, and his words came out in a whisper, tight and dangerous. — You had no right to talk to the Night Watch. They came this morning, during breakfast. All the other lodgers are gossiping about it. —

— I only told them the God's truth. What you did to me. —

— As if anyone believes you. You know what I told Mr. Pratt? I told him what you really are. A little cock-tease. I told him how I took you in, fed you, housed you, just to please my wife. And this is how you repay my generosity! —

— Do you not even care that she's gone? — Rose looked down at the grave. — You didn't come here to say goodbye. 'Tis only to bully me, that's why you're here. While your own wife? —

— My own dear wife couldn't abide you, either. —

Rose's gaze snapped up to his. — You're lying. —

— Don't believe me? — He gave a snort. — You should have heard the things she whispered to me while you slept. What a burden you were, just a millstone she had to drag around, because she knew you'd starve without our charity. —

— I worked for my keep! Every day, I did. —

— As if I couldn't find a dozen other girls, cheaper girls, just as handy with a needle and thread? Go on, go out there, see what kind of position you land. See how long it takes before you're starving. You'll come back to me begging. —

— For you? — It was Rose's turn to laugh, and she did, though hunger had clenched her stomach into a knot. She had hoped that Eben would awaken sober this morning, to feel at least a twinge of regret for what he'd done last night. That with Aurnia's death, he'd suddenly appreciate the treasure he'd lost, and would be a better man for his grief. But she'd been as foolishly trusting as Aurnia, to believe that he could ever rise above his petty pride. Last night, Rose had humiliated him, and in the light of day he stood stripped of all pretense. She saw no grief in his eyes, only wounded vanity, and now she took pleasure from slicing the wound even deeper.

— Yes, maybe I'll go hungry, — she added. — But at least I look after my own. I see to my sister's burial. I'll raise her child. What kind of a man do you think people will call you when they hear you gave up your own