The Bone Garden: A Novel

But what of Norris? Where did he sleep tonight? Was he cold and hungry? Why had she heard no news?

Though the supper hour had come and gone, Dr. Grenville had not returned. Rose had waited all evening with her ear cocked, but had heard neither his voice nor his footstep. — It's the nature of his profession, girl, — Mrs. Furbush had said. — A doctor can't be expected to work regular hours. Patients are always bringing him out into the night, and there are times he doesn't come home till dawn. —

Long after the rest of the household had retired, Dr. Grenville still had not returned. And Rose lay awake. The coals in the hearth had lost their glow and were fading to ash. Through the kitchen window, she could see a tree, silhouetted by moonlight, and could hear the branches sway in the wind.

And now she heard something else: footsteps creaking on the servants' stairway.

She lay still, listening as the creaks drew closer, as the footsteps moved into the kitchen. One of the maids, perhaps, here to restoke the fire. She could just make out the shadowy figure, slipping through the darkness. Then she heard a chair tip over, and a voice muttered: — Blast it all! —

A man.

Rose rolled out of bed and scrambled to the hearth, where she fumbled in the darkness to light a candle. As the flame flared to life, she saw the intruder was a young man in a nightshirt, his fair hair in a tangled swirl from sleep. He froze at the sight of her, clearly as startled to see her as she was to see him.

It's the young master, she thought. Dr. Grenville's nephew, whom she'd been told was recuperating upstairs in his bedroom. A bandage encased the stump of his left wrist, and he swayed, unsteady on his feet. She set down the candle and ran forward to catch him as he sagged sideways.

— I'm all right, I'm fine, — he insisted.

— You should not be up, Mr. Lackaway. — She righted the chair that he had just overturned in the darkness and gently lowered him into it. — I'll fetch your mother. —

— No, don't. Please! —

That desperate entreaty made her stop.

— She'll only fuss at me, — he said. — I'm tired of being fussed at. I'm tired of being trapped in my room, just because she's terrified I'll catch a fever. — He looked up at her with pleading eyes. — Don't wake her. Just let me sit here for a while. Then I'll go back up to bed, I promise. —

She sighed. — As you please. But you shouldn't be up all alone. —

— I'm not alone. — He managed a weak smile. — You're here. —

She felt his gaze follow her as she crossed to the hearth to stir the coals back to life and add more wood. Flames leaped up, throwing their welcome warmth into the room.

— You're that girl all the maids are talking about, — he said.

She turned to look at him. The rekindled fire cast new light on his face, and she saw finely etched features, a refined brow and lips that were almost girlish. Illness had sapped its color, but it was a handsome, sensitive face, more boy than man.

— You're Norris's friend, — he said.

She nodded. — My name's Rose. —

— Well, Rose. I'm his friend, too. And from what I hear, he needs every friend he can get. —

The gravity of what Norris faced suddenly weighed so heavily on her shoulders that Rose sank into a chair at the table. — I'm so afraid for him, — she whispered.

— My uncle knows people. People of influence. —

— Even your uncle has his doubts now. —

— But you don't? —

— Not a one. —

— How can you be so sure of him? —

She looked Charles straight in the eye. — I know his heart. —

— Truly? —

— You think I'm a moonstruck girl. —

— It's just that one reads so many poems about devotion. But seldom do we actually encounter it. —

— I wouldn't waste my devotion on a man I didn't believe in. —

— Well, Rose, if ever I face the gallows, I'll count myself lucky to have a friend like you. —

She shuddered at his mention of the gallows and turned to stare at the hearth, where flames were rapidly consuming the log.

— I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. They've given me so much morphine, I don't know what I'm saying anymore. — He looked down at his bandaged stump. — I'm no good for anything these days. Can't even get around on my own two feet. —

— It's late, Mr. Lackaway. You shouldn't be out of bed at all. —

— I only came down for a nip of brandy. — He gave her a hopeful look. — Would you fetch it for me? It's in that cupboard over there. — He pointed across the kitchen, and she suspected that this was not the first time he'd made a nocturnal raid on the brandy bottle.

She poured him only a knuckle's worth, which he drank down in one gulp. Though he clearly expected more, she put the bottle back in the cupboard and said firmly: — I'll help you back to your room. —

With her candle to light their way, she guided him up the steps to the second floor. She had not been upstairs before, and as she helped him down the hallway, her gaze was drawn to all the marvels revealed by candlelight. She saw richly patterned carpet and a gleaming hall table. On the wall was a gallery of portraits, distinguished men and women rendered with such life-like detail that she felt their eyes following her as she guided Charles to his room. By the time she helped him to his bed, he was starting to stumble, as though that small bit of brandy, on top of all the morphine, had tipped him into full intoxication. He flopped onto his mattress with a sigh.

— Thank you, Rose. —

— Good night, sir. —

— He's a lucky man, Norris is. To have a girl who loves him as much as you do. The sort of love that poets write about. —

— I don't know anything about poetry, Mr. Lackaway. —

— You don't have to. — He closed his eyes and sighed. — You know the real thing. —

She watched as his breaths deepened, as he sank into sleep. Yes, I know the real thing. And now I could lose it.

Carrying the candle, she left his room and stepped back into the hallway. There she suddenly halted, her gaze frozen on a face that stared back at her. In the gloom, with only the glow of the flame to illuminate the hall, the portrait seemed so startlingly real that she stood rooted before it, stunned by the unexpected familiarity of those features. She saw a man with a thick mane of hair and dark eyes that reflected a lively intelligence. He seemed eager to engage her in debate from his perch on the canvas. She stepped closer so that she might examine every shadow, every curve of that face. So entranced was she by the image, she did not hear the approaching footsteps until they were only a few feet away. The nearby creak made her whirl, so startled that she almost dropped the candle.

— Miss Connolly? — said Dr. Grenville, frowning at her. — May I ask why you are wandering about the house at this hour? —

She heard the note of suspicion in his voice and flushed. He assumes the worst, she thought; about the Irish, they always assume the worst. — It was Mr. Lackaway, sir. —

— What about my nephew? —

— He came down to the kitchen. I didn't think he was steady on his feet, so I helped him back to his bed. — She gestured toward Charles's door, which she had left open.

Dr. Grenville peered into the room at his nephew, who was sprawled uncovered on the bed and snoring loudly.

— I'm sorry, sir, — she said. — I wouldn't have come upstairs if he didn't? —

— No, I'm the one who should apologize. — He sighed. — It's been a most trying day, and I'm weary. Good night. — He turned.

— Sir? — she said. — Is there news of Norris? —