Vicky stared down at the bones with a look of distaste. “Is this—one body?”
“A complete skeleton,” Petrie said. “She was buried deep enough to be protected from scavenger damage. On this slope, the soil’s quite well drained. Plus, judging by the fragments of leather, it looks like she was wrapped in some kind of animal hide, and the leaching tannins are something of a preservative.”
“She?”
“Yes.” Petrie looked up, sharp blue eyes narrowed against the sun. “This is a female. Based on dentition and the condition of her vertebrae, she was fairly young, certainly under the age of thirty-five. All in all, she’s in remarkably good shape.” Petrie looked at Julia. “Except for the crack you made with your trowel.”
Julia flushed. “I thought the skull was a rock.”
“It’s not a problem distinguishing between old and new fractures. Look.” Petrie dropped to a squat again and picked up the skull. “The crack you made is right here, and it doesn’t show any staining. But see this crack here, on the parietal bone? And there’s another one here, on the zygomatic bone, under the cheek. These surfaces are stained brown from long exposure to dirt. That tells us these are premor-bid fractures, not from excavation damage.”
“Pre-morbid?” Julia looked at her. “Are you saying…”
“These blows almost certainly caused her death. I would call this a murder.”
In the night, Julia lay awake, listening to the creak of old floors, the rustle of mice in the walls. As old as this house was, the grave was even older. While men were hammering together these beams, laying down the pine floors, only a few dozen paces away the corpse of an unknown woman was already moldering in the earth. Had they known she was here when they built on this spot? Had there been a stone marking the site?
Or did no one know she was here? Did no one remember her?
She kicked aside the sheets and lay sweating atop the mattress. Even with both windows open, the bedroom felt airless, not even a whisper of a breeze to dissipate the heat. A firefly flashed on and off in the darkness above her, its light winking forlornly as it circled the room, seeking escape.
She sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. The magical sparks overhead transformed to an ordinary brown bug flitting about near the ceiling. She wondered how to catch it without killing it. Wondered whether the fate of one lone bug was worth the effort.
The phone rang. At eleven thirty, only one person would be calling.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” said Vicky. “I just got home from one of those endless dinners.”
“It’s too hot to sleep anyway.”
“Julia, there was something I wanted to tell you earlier, when I was there. But I couldn’t, not with all those people around.”
“No more advice about this house, okay?”
“This isn’t about the house. It’s about Richard. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but if I were you, I’d want to know. You shouldn’t have to hear this through the grapevine.”
“Hear what?”
“Richard is getting married.”
Julia clutched the receiver, gripping so tight her fingers went numb. In the long silence, she heard her own heartbeat pounding in her ear.
“So you didn’t know.”
Julia whispered: “No.”
“What a little shit he is,” Vicky muttered with enough bitterness for them both. “It’s been planned for over a month, that’s what I heard. Someone named Tiffani with an i. I mean, how cutesy can you get? I have no respect for any man who marries a Tiffani.”
“I don’t understand how this happened so quickly.”
“Oh, honey, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He had to be running around with her while you were still married. Did he suddenly start coming home late? And there were all the business trips. I wondered about those. I just didn’t have the heart to say anything.”
Julia swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“I should have guessed. A man doesn’t ask for a divorce right out of the blue.”
“Good night, Vicky.”
“Hey. Hey, are you okay?”
“I just don’t want to talk.” Julia hung up.
For a long time, she sat motionless. Above her head, the firefly kept circling, desperately searching for a way out of its prison. Eventually it would exhaust itself. Trapped here without food, without water, it would die in this room.
She climbed up onto the mattress. As the firefly darted closer, she caught it in her hands. Palms cupped around the insect, she walked barefoot to the kitchen and opened the back door. There, on the porch, she released the firefly. It fluttered away into the darkness, its light no longer winking, escape its only objective.
Did it know she’d saved its life? One puny thing she was capable of.
She lingered on the porch, breathing in gulps of night air, unable to bear the thought of returning to that hot little bedroom.
Richard was getting married.
Her breath caught in her throat, spilled out in a sob. She gripped the porch railing and felt splinters prick her fingers.
And I’m the last to find out.
Staring into the night, she thought of the bones that had been buried just a few dozen yards away. A forgotten woman, her name lost to the centuries. She thought of cold earth pressing down as winter snows swirled above, of seasons cycling, the decades passing, while flesh rotted and worms feasted. I’m like you, another forgotten woman, she thought.
And I don’t even know who you are.
Two
November 1830
DEATH ARRIVED with the sweet tinkling of bells.
Rose Connolly had come to dread the sound, for she’d heard it too many times already as she sat beside her sister’s hospital bed, dabbing Aurnia’s forehead, holding her hand and offering her sips of water. Every day those cursed bells, rung by the acolyte, heralded the priest’s arrival on the ward to deliver the sacrament and administer the ritual of extreme unction. Though only seventeen years old, Rose had seen many lifetimes’ worth of tragedy these last five days. On Sunday, Nora had died, three days after her wee babe was born. On Monday, it was the brown-haired lass at the far end of the ward, who’d succumbed so soon after giving birth that there’d been no chance to learn her name, not with the family weeping and the newborn baby howling like a scalded cat and the busy coffin maker hammering in the courtyard. On Tuesday, after four days of feverish agonies following the birth of a son, Rebecca had mercifully succumbed, but only after Rose had been forced to endure the stench of the putrid discharges crusting the sheets and oozing from between the girl’s legs. The whole ward smelled of sweat and fevers and purulence. Late at night, when the groans of dying souls echoed through the corridors, Rose would startle awake from exhausted slumber to find reality more frightful than her nightmares. Only when she stepped outside into the hospital courtyard, and breathed in deeply of the cold mist, could she escape the foul air of the ward.
But always, she had to return to the horrors. To her sister.
“The bells again,” Aurnia whispered, sunken eyelids flickering. “Which poor soul is it this time?”
Rose glanced down the lying-in ward, to where a curtain had been hastily drawn around one of the beds. Moments ago, she had seen Nurse Mary Robinson set out the small table and lay out the candles and crucifix. Although she couldn’t see the priest, she heard him murmuring behind that curtain, and could smell the burning candle wax.
“Through the great goodness of His mercy, may God pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed…”
“Who?” Aurnia asked again. In her agitation, she struggled to sit up, to see over the row of beds.
“I fear it’s Bernadette,” said Rose.
“Oh! Oh, no.”
Rose squeezed her sister’s hand. “She may yet live. Have a bit of hope.”
“The baby? What of her baby?”
“The boy is healthy. Didn’t you hear him howling in his crib this morning?”
&n
bsp; Aurnia settled back against the pillow with a sigh, and the breath she exhaled carried the fetid odor of death, as if already her body was rotting from within, her organs putrefying. “There’s that small blessing, then.”
Blessing? That the boy would grow up an orphan? That his mother had spent the last three days whimpering as her belly bloated from childbed fever? Rose had seen far too many such blessings over the past seven days. If this was an example of His benevolence, then she wanted no part of Him. But she uttered no such blasphemy in her sister’s presence. It was faith that had sustained Aurnia these past months, through her husband’s abuse, through the nights when Rose had heard her weeping softly through the blanket that hung between their beds. What good had faith done poor Aurnia? Where was God all these days as Aurnia labored in vain to give birth to her first child?
If you hear a good woman’s prayers, God, why do you let her suffer?
Rose expected no answer, and none was received. All she heard was the priest’s futile murmurings from behind the curtain hiding Bernadette’s bed.
“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, be there quenched in thee all power of the devil, through the laying on of my hands, and through the invocation of the glorious and holy Virgin Mary, Mother of God.”
“Rose?” Aurnia whispered.
“Yes, darling?”
“I’m greatly afeard ’tis time for me as well.”
“Time for what?”
“The priest. Confession.”
“And what small sins could possibly trouble you? God knows your soul, darling. Do you think He doesn’t see the goodness there?”
“Oh, Rose, you don’t know all the things I’m guilty of! All the things I’m too ashamed to tell you about! I can’t die without—”
“Don’t talk to me of dying. You can’t give up. You have to fight.”
Aurnia responded with a weak smile and reached up to touch her sister’s hair. “My little Rosie. Never one to be afraid.”
But Rose was afraid. Terribly afraid that her sister would leave her. Desperately afraid that once Aurnia received the final blessing, she’d stop fighting and give up.
Aurnia closed her eyes and sighed. “Will you stay with me again tonight?”
“Surely I will.”
“And Eben? Hasn’t he come?”
Rose’s hand tensed around Aurnia’s. “Do you really want him here?”
“We’re bound to each other, himself and me. For better or worse.”
Mostly for worse, Rose wanted to say, but held her tongue. Eben and Aurnia might be bound in marriage, but it was better that he stayed away, for Rose could scarcely abide the man’s presence. For the past four months, she had lived with Aurnia and Eben in a Broad Street boardinghouse, her cot squeezed into a tiny alcove adjoining their bedroom. She had tried to stay out of Eben’s way, but as Aurnia had grown heavy and weary with pregnancy, Rose had taken on more and more of her sister’s duties in Eben’s tailor shop. In the shop’s back room, cramped with bolts of muslin and broadcloth, she had spied her brother-in-law’s sly glances, had noticed how often he found excuses to brush against her shoulder, to stand too close, inspecting her stitches as she labored over trousers and waistcoats. She had said nothing of this to Aurnia, as she knew Eben would certainly deny it. And in the end, Aurnia would be the one to suffer.
Rose wrung out a cloth over the basin, and as she pressed it to Aurnia’s forehead, she wondered: Where has my pretty sister gone? Not even a year of marriage and already the light had left Aurnia’s eyes, the sheen gone from her flame-colored hair. All that remained was this listless shell, hair matted with sweat, face a dull mask of surrender.
Weakly, Aurnia lifted her arm from beneath the sheet. “I want you to have this,” she whispered. “Take it now, before Eben does.”
“Take what, darling?”
“This.” Aurnia touched the heart-shaped locket that hung around her neck. It had the genuine gleam of gold, and Aurnia wore it night and day. A gift from Eben, Rose assumed. Once, he had cared enough about his wife to give her such a fancy trinket. Why was he not here when she needed him most?
“Please. Help me take it off.”
“It’s not the time for you to be giving it away,” said Rose.
But Aurnia managed to slip off the necklace by herself, and she placed it in her sister’s hand. “It’s yours. For all the comfort you’ve given me.”
“I’ll keep it safe for you, ’tis all.” Rose placed it into her pocket. “When this is over, darling, when you’re holding your own sweet babe, I’ll put it back around your neck.”
Aurnia smiled. “If only that could be.”
“It will be.”
The receding tinkle of bells told her the priest had finished his ministrations to the dying Bernadette, and Nurse Robinson quickly scurried over to remove the screen in preparation for the next set of visitors, who had just arrived.
Everyone in the room fell silent with expectation as Dr. Chester Crouch walked onto the maternity ward. Today, Dr. Crouch was accompanied by the hospital’s head nurse, Miss Agnes Poole, as well as an entourage of four medical students. Dr. Crouch started his rounds at the first bed, occupied by a woman who had been admitted just that morning after two days of fruitless labor at home. The students stood in a semicircle, watching as Dr. Crouch slipped his arm under the sheet to discreetly examine the patient. She gave a cry of pain as he probed deep between her thighs. His hand reemerged, fingers streaked with blood.
“Towel,” he requested, and Nurse Poole promptly handed him one. Wiping his hand, he said to the four students: “This patient is not progressing. The infant’s head is at the same position, and the cervix has not fully dilated. In this particular case, how should her physician proceed? You, Mr. Kingston! Have you an answer?”
Mr. Kingston, a handsome and dapper young man, answered without hesitation, “I believe that ergot in souchong tea is recommended.”
“Good. What else might one do?” He focused on the shortest of the four students, an elf-like fellow with large ears to match. “Mr. Holmes?”
“One could try a cathartic, to stimulate contractions,” Mr. Holmes promptly answered.
“Good. And you, Mr. Lackaway?” Dr. Crouch turned to a fair-haired man whose startled face instantly flushed red. “What else might be done?”
“I—that is—”
“This is your patient. How will you proceed?”
“I would have to think about it.”
“Think about it? Your grandfather and father were both physicians! Your uncle’s dean of the medical college. You’ve had more exposure to the medical arts than any of your classmates. Come now, Mr. Lackaway! Have you nothing to contribute?”
Helplessly the young man shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Sighing, Dr. Crouch turned to the fourth student, a tall dark-haired young man. “Your turn, Mr. Marshall. What else might be done in this situation? A patient in labor, who is not progressing?”
The student said, “I would urge her to sit up or stand, sir. And if she is able, she should walk about the ward.”
“What else?”
“It’s the only additional modality that seems appropriate to me.”
“And what of bleeding the patient as a treatment?”
A pause. Then, deliberately: “I am not convinced of its efficacy.”
Dr. Crouch gave a startled laugh. “You—you are not convinced?”
“On the farm where I grew up, I experimented with bleeding, as well as cupping. I lost just as many calves with it as without it.”
“On the farm? You are talking about bleeding cows?”
“And pigs.”
Nurse Agnes Poole snickered.
“We are dealing with human beings here, not beasts, Mr. Marshall,” said Dr. Crouch. “A therapeutic bleeding, I’ve found in my own experience, is quite effective for relieving pain. It relaxes a patient enough so that she may properly dilate. If the ergot and a cathartic don’t work
, then I will most certainly bleed this patient.” He handed the soiled towel back to Nurse Poole and moved on, to Bernadette’s bed. “And this one?” he asked.
“Though her fever has abated,” said Nurse Poole, “the discharge has become quite foul. She spent the night in great discomfort.”
Again, Dr. Crouch reached under the sheet to palpate the internal organs. Bernadette gave a weak groan. “Yes, her skin is quite cool,” he concurred. “But in this case…” He paused and looked up. “She has received morphine?”
“Several times, sir. As you ordered.”
His hands came out from beneath the sheet, fingers glistening with yellowish slime, and the nurse handed him the same soiled towel. “Continue the morphine,” he said quietly. “Keep her comfortable.” It was as good as a death pronouncement.
Bed by bed, patient by patient, Dr. Crouch made his way down the ward. By the time he reached Aurnia’s bed, the towel he used to wipe his hands was soaked with blood.
Rose stood to greet him. “Dr. Crouch.”
He frowned at her. “It’s Miss…”
“Connolly,” said Rose, wondering why this man could not seem to remember her name. She had been the one to summon him to the lodging house where, for a day and a night, Aurnia had labored without success. Rose had been here at her sister’s bedside every time Crouch had visited, yet he always seemed flummoxed when they met anew. But then he did not really look at Rose; she was just an accessory female, unworthy of a second glance.
He turned his attention to Nurse Poole. “And how is this patient progressing?”
“I believe the daily cathartics you prescribed last night have improved the quality of her contractions. But she has not complied with your orders to rise from bed and walk about the ward.”
Staring at Nurse Poole, Rose was scarcely able to hold her tongue. Walk about the ward? Were they mad? For the past five days, Rose had watched Aurnia fall steadily weaker. Surely Nurse Poole could see the obvious, that her sister could scarcely sit up, much less walk. But the nurse was not even looking at Aurnia; her worshipful gaze was fixed on Dr. Crouch. He reached beneath the sheets, and as he probed the birth canal, Aurnia gave a moan of such agony that Rose could scarcely stop herself from wrenching him away.
The Bone Garden Page 2