Julia shook her head.
— Here in the United States, we hadn't heard of Semmelweis and his germ theory. Yet we were dealing with the same epidemics of childbed fever, the same appalling mortality rates. American doctors blamed it on bad air or poor circulation or even something as ridiculous as wounded modesty! Women were dying, and no one in America could figure out why. — He looked down at the letter. — No one, that is, until Oliver Wendell Holmes. —
Twenty-five
1830
SHELTERED IN A NOOK beneath a doorway, blocked from the worst of the wind, Rose gazed across the hospital common, her eyes fixed on Norris's attic window. She had been watching for hours, but now that darkness had fallen, she could no longer distinguish his building from among the rooflines silhouetted against the night sky. Why hadn't he come back? What if he did not return tonight? She hoped for a second night under Norris's roof, for a second chance to see him, to hear his voice. This morning, she'd awakened to find the coins he'd left for her, coins that would keep Meggie warm and fed for another week. In return for his generosity, she'd mended two of his threadbare shirts. Even if she hadn't owed him, she'd have been happy to mend those shirts, just for the pleasure of touching fabric that had brushed his back, fabric that had known the warmth of his skin.
She saw candlelight flicker to life in a window. His window.
She started across the hospital common. This time, he'll be anxious to listen to me, she thought. By now, he'd surely heard the latest news. She eased open the door to his building and peeked inside, then quietly slipped up the two flights of stairs to the attic. At his door she paused, her heart thumping hard. Because of her run up those steps? Or because she was about to see Norris again? She patted her hair, straightened her skirt, feeling foolish even as she did it, because all the effort was for a man who wouldn't give her a second glance. Why would he bother to look at Rose after dancing with all those fine ladies last night?
She'd glimpsed them as they'd left Dr. Grenville's house and stepped into their carriages, those lovely girls with their swishing silk gowns and velvet mantles and fur muffs. She'd watched how carelessly they allowed their hems to drag across the dirty snow, but of course they would not have to wash out the stains. They had not spent hours, as Rose had, bent over needle and thread, sewing in light so poor that her eyes would one day be pinched as permanently as if she had stitched puckers into her own skin. One season's round of parties and dances, and the poor old dress would be retired anyway, to make way for the newest styles, the latest shade of gauze. Lurking in the darkness outside Dr. Grenville's home, Rose had spotted the very gown that she herself had sewn, with the rose-colored silk. It adorned a round-cheeked young miss who had giggled all the way to her carriage. Is that the kind of girl you prefer, Mr. Marshall? Because I cannot compete with that.
She knocked. Stood with back straight and chin raised as she heard his footsteps approach the door. Suddenly he was standing before her, the light spilling from behind him into the gloomy staircase. — There you are! Where have you been? —
She paused, confused. — I thought I should stay away until you came home. —
— You've been gone all day? No one has seen you here? —
His words stung her like a slap in the face. All day she'd been hungry to see him, and this was the greeting he gave her? I'm the girl he wants no one to know about, she thought. The embarrassing secret.
She said, — I only came back to tell you what I'm hearing on the street. Dr. Berry is dead. They found his body under the West Boston Bridge. —
— I know. Mr. Pratt told me. —
— Then you know as much as I do. Good night, Mr. Marshall. — She turned.
— Where are you going? —
— I haven't had any supper. — And would probably have none at all tonight.
— I've brought food for you. Won't you stay? —
She paused on the stairs, startled by the unexpected offer.
— Please, — he said. — Come in. There's someone here who wishes to speak to you. —
She still felt the sting of his earlier comment and sheer pride almost drove her to decline the invitation. But her stomach was rumbling, and she wanted to know who this someone might be. She stepped into the attic and focused on the little man standing near the window. He was no stranger; she remembered him from the hospital. Like Norris, Wendell Holmes was a medical student, but she was quick to spot the differences between the two. What she noticed first was the superior quality of Holmes's coat, which had been expertly tailored to his small shoulders, his narrow waist. He had eyes like a sparrow's, bright and alert, and while she studied him, she knew that he was studying her in kind and cannily taking her measure.
— This is my classmate, — said Norris. — Mr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. —
The little man nodded. — Miss Connolly. —
— I remember you, — she said. Because you look like a wee elf. But she did not think he would appreciate that observation. — I'm the one you wished to see, Mr. Holmes? —
— About the death of Dr. Berry. You've heard about it. —
— I saw a crowd gathered near the bridge. They told me they'd found the doctor's body. —
— This new development greatly confuses the picture, — said Wendell. — By tomorrow, the newspapers will be stoking terror. West End Reaper still at large! The public will once again see monsters everywhere. It puts Mr. Marshall in a most uncomfortable position. Perhaps even a dangerous one. —
— Dangerous? —
— When the public's frightened, it can turn irrational. It may try to mete out justice on its own. —
She said to Norris: — Ah. So that's why you're suddenly willing to listen to me. Because now it affects you. —
Norris gave an apologetic nod. — I'm sorry, Rose. I should have paid more attention to you last night. —
— You were ashamed just to be seen with me. —
— And now I'm ashamed of my behavior toward you. My only excuse is that I had much to consider. —
— Oh, yes. Your future. —
He sighed, a sound so defeated that she almost felt sorry for him. — I have no future. Not anymore. —
— And how can I change that? —
— What matters now, — said Wendell, — is that we learn the truth. —
— The truth only matters to those who're unfairly accused, — she said. — No one else cares. —
— I care, — Wendell insisted. — Mary Robinson and Dr. Berry would have cared. And the killer's future victims will most certainly care. — He came toward her, his eyes so sharply focused on her that she felt he could see straight into her mind. — Tell us about your niece, Rose. The little girl whom everyone is searching for. —
For a moment she said nothing, weighing how much she could trust Oliver Wendell Holmes. And decided that she had no choice but to trust him. She had reached her limit, and now she was nearly faint with hunger.
— I'll tell you, — she said. — But first — She looked at Norris. — You said you brought me food. —
She ate as she told the story, pausing to rip into a chicken leg or stuff a chunk of bread into her mouth. This was not the way one of those fine ladies might eat, but then this meal didn't come with pretty china or silverware. Her last meal had been that morning, a shriveled scrap of smoked mackerel that the fishmonger had planned to toss to his cat but, out of pity, had handed to her instead. The few coins that Norris had left her that morning had not gone toward a meal for herself. Instead she'd pressed them into Billy's hand and asked him to deliver the money to Hepzibah.
For another week, at least, little Meggie would be fed.
And now, for the first time in days, she, too, could eat her fill. So she did, devouring both meat and cartilage, sucking the marrow, leaving a mound of broken chicken bones, gnawed clean.
— You truly have no idea who fathered your sister's child? — asked Wendell.
— Aurnia said nothing to me. Th
ough she hinted —
— Yes? —
Rose paused, setting down the bread as her throat closed tight from the memories. — She asked me to fetch the priest for last rites. It was so important to her, but I kept putting it off. I didn't want her to stop fighting. I wanted her to live. —
— And she wanted to confess her sins. —
— Shame kept her from telling me, — Rose said softly.
— And the child's father remains a mystery. —
— Except to Mr. Gareth Wilson. —
— Ah yes, the mysterious lawyer. May I see the card he gave you? —
She wiped her greasy hand and reached in her pocket for Gareth Wilson's calling card, which she handed to Wendell.
— He lives on Park Street. An impressive address. —
— A fine address doesn't make him a gentleman, — she said.
— You don't trust him one whit, do you? —
— Look at the filthy company he keeps. —
— You mean Mr. Tate? —
— He used Eben to find me. Which makes Mr. Wilson no better, no matter how fancy his address. —
— Did he say anything at all about who his client might be? —
— No. —
— Would your brother-in-law know? —
— Fool that he is, Eben wouldn't know a thing. And Mr. Wilson would be even more a fool to tell him. —
— I doubt this Mr. Gareth Wilson is any sort of fool, — said Wendell, looking at the address again. — Have you told any of this to the Night Watch? —
— No. —
— Why not? —
— It's useless to speak to Mr. Pratt. — Her tone of disdain left no doubt what she thought of the man.
Wendell smiled. — I'd have to agree. —
— I think Dim Billy would make a better constable. Mr. Pratt wouldn't believe me, anyway. —
— You're so sure of that? —
— No one believes the likes of me. We Irish need to be watched all the time, or we'll pick your pockets and steal your children. If you doctors didn't slit us open and poke around inside our chests, like in that book over there — she pointed to the anatomy text on Norris's desk — you'd probably think we didn't have hearts that look just like yours. —
— Oh, I have no doubt you have a heart, Miss Connolly. And a generous one at that, to take on such a burden as your niece. —
— Hardly a burden, sir. She's my own family. — Her only family now.
— You're certain the child is safe? —
— As safe as I can make her. —
— Where is she? May we see her? —
Rose hesitated. Though Wendell's gaze was unflinching, though he'd given her no reason to doubt him, still, this was Meggie's life at stake.
Norris said, — She seems to be at the center of it all. Please, Rose. We only want to be sure she's well protected. And healthy. —
It was Norris's plea that convinced her. From their first meeting in the hospital, she had been drawn to him, had felt that, unlike the other gentlemen, he was someone she could turn to. Last night, by his charity, he had confirmed her faith in him.
She looked out the window. — It's dark enough. I never go there in daylight. — She stood. — It should be safe now. —
— I'll call a carriage, — said Wendell.
— No carriage will make it down the alley where I'm taking you. — She wrapped her cloak tight and turned to the door. — We walk. —
In Hepzibah's world, shadows always reigned. Even when Rose had visited while the sun was shining, the light barely penetrated into the low-ceilinged room. In her zeal to keep warm, Hepzibah had nailed her shutters closed, turning her room into a dark little cave where the far corners remained eternally invisible. So the murky space Rose saw that night looked no different than always, with the fire reduced to glowing coals, and not even a single candle burning.
With a joyful laugh, Rose swept up Meggie from the basket and brought the little face up to hers, breathing in the familiar scents of her hair, her swaddling clothes. Meggie responded with a wet cough, and tiny fingers reached out to grasp a handful of Rose's hair. Mucus gleamed on her upper lip.
— Ah, my darling girl! — said Rose, hugging Meggie to her own empty breasts. Wishing that she could be the one to nourish her. The two gentlemen standing behind her remained strangely silent, watching as she fussed over the baby. She turned to Hepzibah. — Has she been ill? —
— Started coughing last night. You haven't been here in a few days. —
— I sent money today. Billy brought it, didn't he? —
By the faint glow of the hearth, Hepzibah, with her fat neck, looked like an enormous toad planted in the chair. — Aye, the idiot boy brought it. I'll be needing more. —
— More? But it was what you asked. —
— She's keepin' me up now, that one. Coughing. —
Norris said, — May we take a look at the baby? We'd like to confirm that she's healthy. —
Hepzibah eyed him and gave a grunt. — Who might you gentlemen be, to care about some fatherless child? —
— We're medical students, madam. We care about all children. —
— Ooh, fancy that! — Hepzibah laughed. — I can show you ten thousand of 'em, when you're done wi' this one. —
Norris lit a candle at the hearth. — Bring the baby here, Rose. So I can get a better look at her. —
Rose carried Meggie to him. The baby gazed up with trusting eyes as Norris peeled away the blanket and examined her chest, prodded her abdomen. Already he had the sure and confident hands of a doctor, Rose observed, and she imagined him as he would one day look, his hair streaked with gray, his gaze sober and wise. Oh, she hoped she would know him then! She hoped she could watch him gaze down at his own child. Our own child. Thoroughly he inspected Meggie, whose plump thighs were testimony to an adequate diet. But the baby was coughing, and strands of clear mucus trickled from her nostrils.
— She seems to have no fever, — said Norris. — But there is congestion. —
Hepzibah gave a dismissive grunt. — All the little ones have it. Not a child in South Boston who doesn't have snot under his nose. —
— But she's so young. —
— She eats more than enough. And for that as well, I'll need to be paid more. —
Wendell reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of coins, which he placed in the wet nurse's hand. — There'll be more. But the child must stay well fed and healthy. Do you understand? —
Hepzibah stared at the money. And she said, with a new note of respect, — Oh, she will, sir. I'll be sure of it. —
Rose stared at Wendell, stunned by his generosity. — I'll find a way to pay you, Mr. Holmes, — she said, softly. — I swear to you. —
— There's no need to talk of payment, — said Wendell. — If you'll excuse us, Mr. Marshall and I need to speak alone. — He looked at Norris, and the two men stepped outside, into the alley.
— Not just one, but two gentlemen paying your way, eh? — Hepzibah looked at Rose and gave a knowing cackle. — You must be quite a girl. —
— This place is appalling! — said Wendell. — Even if she keeps the child well fed, look at the woman! She's grotesque. And this neighborhood all these tenements they're ridden with disease. —
And they're filled with children, thought Norris, looking up the narrow alley at windows where candles flickered. Countless children, every bit as vulnerable as baby Meggie. They stood outside Hepzibah's door, shivering in a night that had fallen significantly colder in just the short time they'd been indoors. — She can't stay here, — he agreed.
— The question is, — said Wendell, — what's the alternative? —
— She belongs with Rose. That's where she'll be best cared for. —
— Rose can't feed her. And if she's right about these murders, if she's truly being hunted, then she needs to stay as far away from the baby as she can get. She knows that. —
; — And it's breaking her heart. You can see it. —
— Yet she's clear-eyed enough to realize it's necessary. — Wendell glanced down the alley as a drunken man came tottering out of a doorway and staggered away in the other direction. — She's quite a resourceful girl. She has to be clever, just to keep body and soul together out on the streets. I have a feeling that, no matter the situation, Rose Connolly will find a way to survive. And keep her niece alive as well. —
Norris remembered the wretched lodging house in which he'd visited her. He thought of the room crawling with insects, and the coughing man in the corner, and the floor covered with filthy straw. Could I endure one night in such a place?
— A remarkable girl, — Wendell said.
— I've come to appreciate that. —
— And quite a pretty one, too. Even under all those rags. —
So I've noticed.
— What are you going to do with her, Norris? —
Wendell's question brought Norris up short. What was he going to do with her? This morning, he'd been resolved to send her on her way with a few coins and his best wishes. Now he realized he couldn't turn her out on the street, not when the whole world seemed poised to crush her. And the baby had become his concern as well. Who could not be charmed by such a serene and smiling child?
— No matter what you choose, — said Wendell, — even if you send her away, your fates seem to be tied together. —
— What do you mean? —
— The West End Reaper haunts you both. Rose believes she's stalked by him. The Night Watch believes you are him. Until he's caught, you and Rose won't be safe. — Wendell turned and looked at Hepzibah's door. — Nor will the child. —
Twenty-six
NOW, THIS IS THE WAY to make a living, thought Jack Burke as he lumbered up Water Street, wearing his best coat and his clean boots. No mucking around in the dark and dodging bullets. No coming home with his clothes muddy and reeking of cadavers. With winter setting in and the ground frozen hard as rock, all the merchandise would be coming up from the south anyway, crammed into barrels labeled PICKLES or MADEIRA or WHISKEY. What a surprise would lie in store for any thief who hankered for a drink and secretly broke into one of those barrels. Poor thirsty man, to pry off the lid, his lips tingling with anticipation, only to find, instead of whiskey, a naked corpse preserved in brine.
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