The Bone Garden: A Novel

— Are you really feeling better? — asked Norris.

— My uncle says all the signs are good. I haven't had a fever since Tuesday. Dr. Sewall looked at it this morning and he's satisfied with the wound. — He regarded his bandaged wrist and said, — He saved my life. —

At the mention of Dr. Sewall's name, neither Wendell nor Norris said a word.

— So now, — said Charles, brightening as he looked at his friends. — Tell me the latest. What news is there? —

— We miss you in class, — said Norris.

— Fainting Charlie? No wonder you all miss me. I can always be counted on to make everyone else look brilliant by comparison. —

— You'll have all this time to study, lying here in bed, — said Wendell. — When you come back to class, you'll be the most brilliant of us all. —

— You know I'm not coming back. —

— Of course you are. —

— Wendell, — said Norris quietly. — It's kinder to be honest, don't you think? —

— Really, this will all work out for the better, — Charles said. — I was never meant to be a doctor. Everyone knows it. I have neither the talent nor the interest. It's always been about my uncle's hopes, my uncle's expectations. I'm not like you. Lucky you, always knowing exactly what you wanted to be. —

— And what do you want to be, Charlie? — asked Norris.

— Ask Wendell. He knows. — Charles pointed to his boyhood friend. — We were both members of the Andover Literary Club. He's not the only one prone to bursts of poetic verse. —

Norris gave a startled laugh. — You want to be a poet? —

— My uncle hasn't accepted it yet, but now he's going to have to. And why shouldn't I choose a literary life? Look at Johnny Greenleaf Whittier. He's already finding success with his poems. And that writer fellow from Salem, Mr. Hawthorne. He's but a few years older than I, and I'll lay odds that he'll soon make a name for himself. Why not pursue what I'm passionate about? — He looked at Wendell. — What did you call it once? The drive to write? —

— The intoxicating pleasure of authorship. —

— Yes, that's it! The intoxicating pleasure! — Charles sighed. — Of course, there's hardly a living to be made at it. —

— Somehow, — said Wendell drily as he looked around the well-appointed bedroom, — I doubt you need to be concerned about that. —

— The problem is that my uncle thinks poems and novels are merely frivolous diversions, with no real significance. —

Wendell gave a sympathetic nod. — Something my own father would say. —

— Aren't you ever tempted to ignore him? To choose the literary life anyway? —

— But I don't have a wealthy uncle. And I've rather taken to medicine, anyway. It suits me. —

— Well, it's never suited me. Now my uncle will have to accept it. — He looked down at his stump. — There's nothing so useless as a one-handed surgeon. —

— Ah, but a one-handed poet! You'll cut a most romantic figure. —

— What lady would want me? — Charles asked plaintively. — Now that I've lost my hand? —

Wendell reached out to grasp his friend's shoulder. — Charlie, listen to me. Any lady who's worth knowing, who's worth loving, won't give one whit about your missing hand. —

The creak of a footstep announced Eliza's return to the room. — Gentlemen, — she said, — I think it's time for him to rest. —

— Mother, we're just catching up. —

— Dr. Sewall said you're not to exert yourself. —

— All I've exerted so far is my tongue. —

Wendell stood. — We do need to be going anyway. —

— Wait. You never told me why you came to see my uncle. —

— Oh, nothing really. It's just about that West End business. —

— You mean the Reaper? — Charles's attention perked up. — I heard they found Dr. Berry's body. —

Eliza cut in: — Who told you that? —

— The maids were talking about it. —

— They shouldn't have. I want nothing to upset you. —

— I'm not upset. I want to hear the latest. —

— Not tonight, — said Eliza, curtly ending the conversation. — I'll see your friends out now. —

She accompanied Wendell and Norris down the stairs to the front door. As the two men stepped out, she said: — While Charles welcomes your visits, I do hope that next time you'll keep the conversation on pleasant and uplifting subjects. Kitty and Gwen Welliver were here this afternoon, and they practically filled his room with laughter. The kind of happy chatter he needs to hear, especially around Christmas. —

From the brainless Welliver sisters? Norris preferred to be comatose. But all he said was, — We'll remember that, Mrs. Lackaway. Good night. —

Outside, he and Wendell paused on Beacon Street, their breath clouding in the cold, and watched a lone horse and rider clop past, the man hunched deep within his greatcoat.

— Dr. Grenville is right, you know, — said Wendell. — The child would be much better off here, with him. We should have taken him up on the offer. —

— It's not our decision. The choice is Rose's. —

— You trust her judgment that completely? —

— Yes, I do. — Norris stared up the street as the horse and rider faded into the darkness up Beacon Street. — I think she's the wisest girl I've ever met. —

— You are besotted with her, aren't you? —

— I respect her. And yes, I'm fond of her? who wouldn't be? She has the most generous heart. —

— The word is besotted, Norris. Bewitched. In love. — Wendell gave a knowing sigh. — And clearly she's just as besotted with you. —

Norris frowned. — What? —

— Haven't you seen the way she looks at you, the way she hangs on your every word? The way she's tidied up your room and mended your coat and done everything possible to please you? Do you need any more obvious clue that she's in love with you? —

— In love? —

— Open your eyes, man! — Wendell laughed and gave him a clap on the shoulder. — I must go home for the holiday. I take it you're going to Belmont? —

Norris was still stunned by what Wendell had just said. — Yes, — he said, dazed. — My father expects me. —

— What about Rose? —

What about Rose, indeed?

She was all Norris thought about after he and Wendell parted. As he walked back to his lodgings, he wondered if his friend could possibly be right. Rose in love with him? He'd been oblivious to it. But I never looked for it, either.

From the street below, he could see candlelight flickering in his attic window. She's still awake, he thought, and suddenly he could not wait to see her. He climbed the stairs, feeling more anxious with each step. By the time he opened the door, his heart was pounding as much from anticipation as from exertion.

Rose had fallen asleep at the desk, her head resting on her folded arms, Wistar's Anatomy lying open before her. Looking over her shoulder, he saw that she'd been looking at an illustration of the heart, and he thought: What an extraordinary girl. The candle had guttered down to a mere puddle of wax, so he lit another. As he gently closed the cover of Wistar's, Rose stirred awake.

— Oh, — she murmured, lifting her head. — You're back. —

He watched her stretch, her neck arching, her hair tumbling loose. Looking into her face, he saw no artifice, no guile, just a drowsy girl trying to shake off sleep. The shawl she'd draped around her shoulders was of coarse,