The Bone Garden: A Novel

something growing, not dying. —

Tom leaned back in his chair. — You know, I get the strangest feeling when I look at you. —

— What do you mean? —

— I feel like we've met somewhere before. —

— We did. In my garden. —

— No, before that. I swear, I remember meeting you. —

She stared at the reflected firelight dancing in his eyes. A man as attractive as you? Oh, I would have remembered.

He looked at the stack of documents. — Well, I suppose I should give you a hand here, and stop distracting you. — He pulled a few pages off the top. — You said we're looking for any reference to Rose Connolly? —

— Dig in. She's part of your family, Tom. —

— You think those were her bones in your garden? —

— I just know that her name keeps popping up in those letters from Oliver Wendell Holmes. For a poor Irish girl, she left quite an impression on him. —

He sat back to read. Outside, the wind had risen, and waves were breaking on the rocks. In the fireplace, a downdraft made the flames shudder.

Tom's chair gave a sudden creak as he rocked forward. — Julia? —

— Yes? —

— Did Oliver Wendell Holmes sign his letters with just his initials? —

She stared at the page that he'd slid across to her. — Oh, my God, — she said. — We have to tell Henry. —

Twenty-two

1830

TONIGHT, it did not seem to matter that he was a farmer's son.

Norris handed his hat and greatcoat to the parlor maid and felt a twinge of self-consciousness about the missing button on his waistcoat. But the girl gave him the same curtsy, the same deferential dip of the head that she'd given to the well-dressed couple ahead of him. And just as warm a welcome awaited him when he stepped forward to be greeted by Dr. Grenville.

— Mr. Marshall, we're delighted you could join us this evening, — said Grenville. — May I present you to my sister, Eliza Lackaway. —

That the woman was Charles's mother was immediately apparent. She had his blue eyes and pale skin, flawless as alabaster even in middle age. But her gaze was far more direct than her son's.

— You're the young man my Charles speaks so highly of, — she said.

— I wouldn't know why, Mrs. Lackaway, — Norris answered modestly.

— He said you're the most skilled dissector in his class. He said your work stands out for its neatness, and that no one else had teased out the facial nerves with such clarity. —

It was an inappropriate topic for genteel company, and Norris glanced at Dr. Grenville for guidance.

Grenville merely smiled. — Eliza's late husband was a physician. Our father was a physician. And now she has the great misfortune of putting up with me, so she's quite accustomed to the most grotesque conversations around our supper table. —

— I find it all quite fascinating, — said Eliza. — When we were growing up, our father often invited us into the dissecting room. If I were a man, I, too, would have pursued the study of medicine. —

— And you would have been splendid, dear, — said Grenville, patting his sister's arm.

— So would any number of women, if we had only the opportunity. —

Dr. Grenville gave a resigned sigh. — A topic that you will no doubt raise again and again tonight. —

— Don't you think it's a tragic waste, Mr. Marshall? To ignore the talents and abilities of half the human race? —

— Please, Eliza, let the poor boy at least have a glass of sherry before you start into your pet subject. —

Norris said, — I don't mind addressing the question, Dr. Grenville. — He looked Eliza in the eye and saw fierce intelligence there. — I was raised on a farm, Mrs. Lackaway, so my experience is with livestock. I hope you don't find the comparison demeaning. But I have never observed a stallion to be cleverer than a mare, or a ram cleverer than a ewe. And if the welfare of offspring is threatened, it's the female of the species who's far more formidable. Even dangerous. —

Dr. Grenville laughed. — Spoken like a Philadelphia lawyer! —

Eliza gave an approving nod. — I shall remember that answer. In fact, I shall borrow it the next time I'm drawn into debate on the issue. Where is this farm you grew up on, Mr. Marshall? —

— In Belmont, ma'am. —

— Your mother must be proud of having raised such a forward-thinking son. I certainly would be. —

The mention of his mother was an unwelcome stab to an old wound, but Norris managed to maintain his smile. — I'm sure she is. —

— Eliza, you remember Sophia, don't you? — said Grenville. — Abigail's dear friend. —

— Of course. She used to visit us often in Weston. —

— Mr. Marshall is her son. —

Eliza's gaze swung back to Norris with sudden intensity, and she seemed to recognize something in his face. — You're Sophia's boy. —

— Yes, ma'am. —

— Why, your mother hasn't visited us in years, not since poor Abigail died. I do hope she is well? —

— She's very well, Mrs. Lackaway, — he said, but even he could hear the lack of conviction in his own voice.

Grenville gave him a clap on the back. — Go enjoy yourself. Most of your classmates are already here and well into the champagne. —

Norris walked into the ballroom and paused, dazzled by what he saw. Young ladies glided by in butterfly- bright gowns. A massive chandelier glittered overhead, and everywhere, crystal sparkled. Against the wall was a long table with a lavish display of food. So many oysters, so many cakes! He'd never set foot in a room so grand, with its finely inlaid floor and carved pillars. Standing there in his tired evening coat and cracked shoes, he felt he'd wandered into someone else's fantasy, certainly not his own, for he had never even imagined an evening like this.

— Finally you're here! I was wondering if you would come at all. — Wendell held two glasses of champagne. He handed one to Norris. — Is it as excruciating as you feared? Have you been snubbed, insulted, or otherwise abused yet? —

— After all that's happened, I didn't know how I'd be received. —

— The latest issue of the Gazette should put you safely in the clear. Did you read the latest? Dr. Berry was spotted in Providence. —

Indeed, if one was to believe the rumors flying around town, the fugitive Dr. Nathaniel Berry was hiding in a dozen places at once, from Philadelphia to Savannah.

— I still can't believe he could be the one, — said Norris. — I never saw it in him. —

— Isn't that often the case? Murderers rarely have horns and fangs. They look like everyone else. —

— I saw only a fine physician. —

— That prostitute claims otherwise. According to the Gazette, the girl's said to be so traumatized, they're calling for donations on her behalf. Even I have to agree with the ridiculous Mr. Pratt on this one. Dr. Berry must be the Reaper. And if it's not Dr. Berry, I'm afraid there's only one alternative suspect. — Wendell eyed him over his champagne glass. — That would be you. —