The Bone Garden: A Novel

— I don't presume to know your intentions. —

— I meant no insult. I've known many a clever farm boy. And more than a few idiot gentlemen. What I meant by my comment regarding farmers is that you've had practical experience. You've observed the process of gestation and birth. —

— But as Dr. Crouch quite plainly pointed out to me, a cow cannot be compared to a human being. —

— Of course not. Cows are far more companionable. Your father must agree, or he would not hide himself away on that farm. —

Norris paused, startled. — You are acquainted with my father? —

— No, but I know of him. He must be proud of you, pursuing such a demanding course of study. —

— No, sir. He's unhappy with my choice. —

— How can that be? —

— He had thought to raise a farmer. He considers books a waste of time. I would not even be here, at the medical college, were it not for the generosity of Dr. Hallowell. —

— Dr. Hallowell in Belmont? The gentleman who wrote your letter of recommendation? —

— Yes, sir. Truly, there's no kinder man. He and his wife always made me feel welcome in their home. He personally tutored me in physics and encouraged me to borrow books from his own library. Every month, it seemed, there'd be new ones, and he gave me complete access. Novels. Greek and Roman history. Volumes by Dryden and Pope and Spenser. It's an extraordinary collection. —

Grenville smiled. — And you made good use of it. —

— Books were my salvation, — said Norris, and was suddenly embarrassed that he'd used a word so revealing. But salvation was precisely what books had meant to him during the bleak nights on the farm, nights when he and his father had little to say to each other. When they did speak, it was about whether the hay was still too wet, or how close the cows were to calving. They did not speak of what tormented them both.

And they never would.

— It's a pity that your father did not encourage you, — said Grenville. — Yet you've come so far with such little advantage. —

— I've found?employment here, in the city. — Disgusting though his work with Jack Burke might be. — It's enough to pay for tuition. —

— Your father contributes nothing? —

— He has little to send. —

— I hope he was more generous with Sophia. She deserved better. —

Norris was startled by the mention of that name. — You know my mother. —

— While my wife Abigail was still alive, she and Sophia were the dearest of friends. But that was years ago, before you were born. — He paused. — It was a surprise to us both when Sophia suddenly married. —

And the biggest surprise of all, thought Norris, must have been her choice of a husband, a farmer with little education. Though Isaac Marshall was a handsome man, he had no interest in the music and books that Sophia so treasured, no interest in anything but his crops and his livestock. Norris said, hesitantly, — You do know that my mother is no longer living in Belmont? —

— I'd heard she was in Paris. Is she still there? —

— As far as I know. —

— You don't know? —

— She hasn't corresponded. Life on the farm was not easy for her, I think. And she? — Norris stopped, and the memory of his mother's departure was like a fist suddenly closing around his chest. She'd left on a Saturday, a day he scarcely remembered, because he'd been so ill. And weeks later, he was still weak and wobbly on his feet when he'd come down to the kitchen to find his father, Isaac, standing at the window, staring out at the mist of summer. His father had turned to face him, his expression as distant as a stranger's.

— Your mother just wrote. She won't be coming back, — was all Isaac had said before walking out of the house and heading straight to the barn to do the milking. Why would any woman choose to stay with a husband whose only passions were the ache of hard work and the sight of a well-plowed field? It was Isaac she had fled, Isaac who had driven Sophia away.

But as time went by without other letters, Norris had come to accept a truth that no eleven-year-old boy should have to face: that his mother had also fled from him, abandoning her son to a father who lavished more affection on his cows than on his own flesh and blood.

Norris took a breath, and as he exhaled, he imagined his pain being released as well. But it was still there, the old ache for just one glimpse of the woman who had given him life. And then broken his heart. So anxious was he to end this conversation that he said, abruptly: — I should return to the dissection room. Is that all you wished to see me about, sir? —

— There is one more thing. It's about my nephew. —

— Charles? —

— He speaks highly of you. Even looks up to you. He was quite young when his father died of a fever, and I'm afraid that Charles inherited his father's delicate constitution. My sister thoroughly coddled him when he was a boy, so he's grown up on the sensitive side. It makes anatomical study all the more upsetting for him. —

Norris thought of what he'd just witnessed in the anatomy lab: Charles, white-faced and trembling, as he took up the knife, as he slashed away in blind frustration.

— He is finding the studies difficult, and he receives little encouragement from his friend Mr. Kingston. Only ridicule. —

— Wendell Holmes is a good and supportive friend. —

— Yes, but you are perhaps the most skilled dissector in your class. That's what Dr. Sewall tells me. So I'd appreciate it, should you see that Charles needs any extra guidance? —

— I'd be happy to look out for him, sir. —

— And you won't let Charles know we spoke of this? —

— You can trust me. —

Both men stood. For a moment, Grenville studied him, silently taking his measure. — And so I shall. —

Thirteen

EVEN A DISINTERESTED OBSERVER would be able to tell, with merely a glance, that the four young men who stepped into the Hurricane that night were not of equal standing. If a man could be judged by the quality of his topcoat, that alone would have set Norris apart from his three classmates; certainly it set him apart from the illustrious Dr. Chester Crouch, who had invited his four students to join him for an evening round of drinks. Crouch led the way across the crowded tavern to a table near the fireplace. There he shrugged off his heavy greatcoat with the fur collar and handed it to the girl who had scurried over the instant she'd spotted the group step through the door. The tavern maid was not the only female who'd taken note of their entrance. A trio of young ladies? shopgirls perhaps, or adventurous country visitors? were eyeing the young men, and one of them blushed at a glance from Edward, who merely shrugged at their attentions, so accustomed was he to looks from the ladies.

By the light of the roaring fire, Norris couldn't help admiring Edward's stylish neck stock tied r la Sentimentale, and the green topcoat with the silver buttons and velvet collar. The filth of the dissection room had not stopped Norris's three fellow students from wearing their fine shirts and Marseilles waistcoats while they'd cut into old Paddy. He himself would never risk a disastrous stain on such expensive muslin. His own shirt was old and frayed and not worth the price of Kingston's cravat alone. He looked down at his hands, where dried blood was still caked beneath his fingernails. I shall go home with the stink of that old corpse clinging to my clothes, he thought.

Dr. Crouch called out: — A round of brandy and water for my excellent students here. And a plate of oysters! —