The Bone Garden: A Novel

have cared less about. There's a poem in this somewhere, he thought. A poem about useless girls in pretty dresses. Dresses sewn by other girls. Invisible girls.

— ?and he assured me that bounty hunters will catch up with him eventually, — said Kitty. — Oh, I knew there was something unsavory about him. I could sense the evil. —

— So could I! — said Gwen with a shudder. — That morning in church, sitting beside him? why, it gave me the chills. —

Wendell's attention snapped back to the sisters. — Are you talking about Mr. Marshall? —

— Of course we are. It's all anyone's been talking about. But you've been in Cambridge the last few days, Mr. Holmes, so you've missed all the gossip. —

— I heard quite enough of it in Cambridge, thank you. —

— Is it not shocking? — said Kitty. — To think we dined and danced with a murderer? And such a murderer? To slice off someone's face! Cut out someone's tongue! —

I know two women's tongues I'd like to cut out.

— I've heard, — said Gwen, her eyes bright with excitement, — that he has an accomplice. An Irish girl. — She lowered her voice to say the scandalous word: — An adventuress. —

— You have heard nonsense! — snapped Wendell.

Gwen stared at him, shocked by his blunt rebuttal.

— You silly girls have no idea what you're talking about. Either of you. —

— Oh, dear, — Edward's mother quickly interjected, — I do believe the teapot's empty. I think I should call for more. — She picked up a bell and vigorously rang it.

— But we do know what we're talking about, Mr. Holmes, — Kitty said. Her pride was now at stake, and that superseded any pretense at courtesy. — We have sources close to the Night Watch. Intimately associated with it. —

— Someone's gossipy wife, I assume. —

— Why, that is a most ungentlemanly phrase. —

Mrs. Kingston again rang the servant's bell, this time desperately. — Where is that girl? We need fresh tea! —

— Wendell, — said Edward, trying to smooth things over. — There's no need to take offense. It's only idle talk. —

— Only? They are talking about Norris. You know as well as I do that he's incapable of committing such atrocities. —

— Then why has he run away? — said Gwen. — Why did he leap from that bridge? Surely, that's the action of a guilty man. —

— Or a frightened one. —

— If he's innocent, he should stay and defend himself. —

Wendell laughed. — Against the likes of you? —

— Really, Wendell, — said Edward. — I think it's best if we just change the subject. —

— Where is that girl? — said Mrs. Kingston, sweeping to her feet. She crossed to the door and called out: — Nellie, are you deaf? Nellie! We will have more tea at once! — She swung the door shut with a bang and thumped back to her chair. — I tell you, it's impossible to find decent help these days. —

The Welliver sisters sat in resentful silence, neither one caring to look in Wendell's direction. He had crossed the boundary of gentlemanly behavior, and this was his punishment: to be ignored and unspoken to.

As if it matters to me, he thought, whether I am addressed by idiots. He set down his cup and saucer. — I do thank you for the tea, Mrs. Kingston, — he said. — But I fear I must be going. — He stood; so did Edward.

— Oh, but a fresh pot is coming! — She glanced toward the door. — If that scatterbrained girl will just do her job. —

— You're quite right, — Kitty said, purposefully ignoring Wendell's existence. — There is no decent help these days. Why, our mother had a dreadful time this past May, after our chambermaid left. She was only three months with us when she ran off and got married, with no advance notice. Simply abandoned us, leaving us high and dry. —

— How irresponsible. —

Wendell said, — Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingston. Miss Welliver, Miss Welliver. —

His hostess nodded a farewell, but the two girls did not acknowledge him. They continued to chatter on as he and Edward started toward the door.

— And you know how difficult it is to find decent help these days in Providence. Aurnia was hardly a jewel, but at least she knew how to keep our wardrobe in order. —

Wendell was just about to step out of the parlor when he suddenly stopped. Turning, he stared at Gwen, who prattled on.

— It took us a whole month to find someone suitable to replace her. By then it was already June, and time to pack up for our summer house in Weston. —

— Her name was Aurnia? — said Wendell.

Gwen looked around, as though wondering who could possibly have spoken to her.

— Your chambermaid, — he said. — Tell me about her. —

Gwen coolly met his gaze. — Why on earth would this interest you, Mr. Holmes? —

— Was she young? Pretty? —

— She was about our age, wouldn't you say, Kitty? As for pretty? well, that depends on one's standards. —

— And her hair? what color was it? —

— Why on earth? —

— What color? —

Gwen shrugged. — Red. Quite striking, really, though these flame-haired girls are all so prone to freckles. —

— Do you know where she went? Where she is now? —

— Why should we? The silly girl didn't say a word to us. —

Kitty said, — I think Mother might know. Only she won't tell us, because it's not the sort of thing one talks about in polite company. —

Gwen looked accusingly at her sister. — Why didn't you share this with me before? I tell you everything! —

Edward said, — Wendell, you seem uncommonly concerned about a mere servant. —

Wendell returned to his chair and sat down, facing the clearly flummoxed Welliver sisters. — I want you to tell me everything you can remember about this girl, starting with her full name. Was it Aurnia Connolly? —

Kitty and Gwen looked at each other in astonishment.

— Why, Mr. Holmes, — said Kitty. — However did you know? —

— There's a gentleman here to see you, — said Mrs. Furbush.

Rose looked up from the nightshirt that she had been mending. At her feet was the basket of garments that she had labored over that day, Mrs. Lackaway's skirt with the sagging hem, Dr. Grenville's trousers with the frayed pocket, and all the shirts and blouses and waistcoats needing buttons reattached and seams reinforced. Since returning to the household that morning, she had focused all her grief on a frenzy of mending and stitching, the one skill with which she could repay their kindness to her. All afternoon, she had sat hunched in this corner of the kitchen, sewing in silence, her misery so plainly written on her face that the other servants had respectfully allowed her her privacy. No one had disturbed her, nor even tried to speak to her. Until now.

— The gentleman's at the back door, — said Mrs. Furbush.

Rose placed the nightshirt in her basket and stood. As she crossed the kitchen, she could feel the housekeeper watching her curiously, and when she reached the door, she understood why.

Wendell Holmes was standing in the servants' entrance, a strange place for a gentleman to come