The Bone Garden: A Novel

— He lives down the road. —

An ugly smile crossed Richard's lips. — Is he the reason you bought this place? —

— Get out of my garden, — she said, and walked toward the house.

As she stepped inside, she heard her phone ringing, but she didn't run to answer it. Her attention was still focused on Richard. She watched through the window as he finally walked out of her backyard.

The answering machine kicked in. — Julia, I've just found something. When you get home, call me and I'll? —

She picked up the phone. — Henry? —

— Oh. You're there. —

— I just got home. —

A pause. — What's wrong? —

For a man who lacked even basic social skills, Henry had an uncanny ability to sniff out her moods. She heard a car engine start and carried the phone to the living room window, where she saw Richard's BMW pull away. — Nothing's wrong, — she said. Not now.

— It was in box number six, — he said.

— What was? —

— The last will and testament of Dr. Margaret Tate Page. It's dated 1890, when she would have been sixty. In it, she leaves her possessions to various grandchildren. One of them is a granddaughter named Aurnia. —

— Aurnia? —

— An unusual name, no? I think this confirms without a doubt that Margaret Tate Page is our baby Meggie, grown up. —

— Then the aunt whom Holmes mentioned in his first letter? —

— Is Rose Connolly. —

Julia went back into her kitchen and looked out at the garden, at the same plot of land that another woman, long dead, had once gazed upon. Who was buried in my garden all those years?

Was it Rose?

Seventeen

1830

THE LIGHT THROUGH the grimy window had faded to little more than dull pewter. There were never enough candles in the workroom, and Rose could scarcely see her stitches as her needle plunged in and out of white gauze. Already she had completed the underslip of pale pink satin, and on her worktable were the silk roses and ribbons yet to be added to the shoulders and the waist. It was a fine gown meant for a ball, and as Rose worked, she imagined how the skirt would rustle when its wearer stepped onto the dance floor, how the satin ribbons would gleam by candlelight at the supper table. There would be wine punch in crystal cups, and creamed oysters and ginger cakes, and you could eat your fill and no one would leave hungry. Though she would never know such an evening, this gown would, and with every stitch she added some small part of herself, a trace of Rose Connolly that would linger among these folds of satin and gauze to swirl in the ballroom.

The light through the window was barely a gleam now, and she struggled to see the thread. Someday, she would look like the other women sewing in this room, their eyes fixed in perpetual squints, their fingers callused and scarred from repeated needle pricks. Even when they stood at the end of the day, their backs remained stooped, as though they were incapable of ever again standing tall.

The needle lanced Rose's finger and she gasped, dropping the gauze on the worktable. She brought her throbbing finger to her mouth and tasted blood, but it was not the pain that vexed her; rather, she was worried that she had stained the white gauze. Holding up the fabric to catch every feeble ray of light, she could just make out, in the fold of the seam, a dark fleck so tiny that it would certainly not be noticed by anyone else. Both my stitches and my blood, she thought, I leave on this gown.

— That will be enough for today, ladies, — the foreman announced.

Rose folded the pieces she had worked on, set them on the table for the next day's labors, and joined the line of women waiting to collect their pay for the week. As they all pulled on cloaks and shawls for the cold walk home, Rose saw a few goodbye waves, a halfhearted nod in her direction. They did not yet know her well, nor did they know how long she would remain among them. Too many other girls had come and gone, and too many other efforts at friendship had gone to waste. So the women watched and waited, sensing perhaps that Rose was not one who would last.

— You, girl! Rose, isn't it? I need a word with you. —

Heart sinking, Rose turned to face the foreman. What criticism would Mr. Smibart have of her today? For surely there would be criticism, delivered in that annoyingly nasal voice that made the other seamstresses giggle behind his back.

— Yes, Mr. Smibart? — she asked.

— It has happened again, — he said. — And it cannot be tolerated. —

— I'm sorry, but I don't know what I've done wrong. If my work's unsatisfactory? —

— Your work is perfectly adequate. —

Coming from Mr. Smibart, perfectly adequate was a compliment, and she allowed herself a quiet sigh of relief that, for the moment, her employment here was not in jeopardy.

— It's the other matter, — he said. — I cannot have outsiders disturbing me, inquiring about matters that you should deal with on your own time. Tell your friends you are here to work. —

Now she understood. — I'm sorry, sir. Last week, I told Billy not to come here, and I thought he understood. But he has a child's mind, and he doesn't understand. I'll explain it to him again. —

— It wasn't the boy this time. It was a man. —

Rose went very still. — Which man? — she asked quietly.

— You think I have time to ask the name of every fellow who comes sniffing after my girls? Some beady- eyed fellow, asking all sorts of questions about you. —

— What sort of questions? —

— Where you live, who your friends are. As if I'm your private secretary! This is a business, Miss Connolly, and I will not tolerate such interruptions. —

— I'm sorry, — she murmured.

— You keep saying that, yet the problem remains. No more visitors. —

— Yes, sir, — she said meekly and turned to leave.

— I expect you to deal with him. Whoever he is. —

Whoever he is.

She shivered as she fought the piercing wind that whipped her skirts and numbed her face. On this cold evening, not even the dogs were about, and she walked alone, the last of the women to leave the building. It must be that horrid Mr. Pratt from the Night Watch asking about me, she thought. So far she'd managed to avoid him, but Billy had told her the man was inquiring about her around town, and all because she had dared to pawn Aurnia's locket. How had such a valuable piece of jewelry ended up in Rose's hands when it should have gone to the dead woman's husband?

The fuss is all Eben's doing, thought Rose. I accused him of attacking me so he retaliates by accusing me of being a thief. And of course, the Night Watch believes Eben, because all Irish are thieves.

She moved deeper into the warren of tenements, shoes cracking through ice into stinking puddles, the streets funneling into narrow alleys, as though South Boston itself were closing in around her. At last, she reached the door with the low arch and the stoop where the refuse from various suppers, bones gnawed clean, bread black with mold, lay awaiting the attentions of some starving dog desperate enough to eat a putrid meal.

Rose knocked on the door.