The Bone Garden: A Novel

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? —

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.

He straightened and looked at Nurse Poole. — Although the amniotic sac is ruptured, she is not yet fully dilated. — He dried his hand on the filthy towel. — How many days has it been? —

— Today is the fifth, — said Nurse Poole.

— Then perhaps another dose of ergot is called for. — He took Aurnia's wrist and felt the pulse. — Her heart rate is rapid. And she feels a bit feverish today. A bleeding should cool the system. —

Nurse Poole nodded. — I'll assemble the— —

— You have bled her enough, — cut in Rose.

Everyone fell silent. Dr. Crouch glanced up at her, clearly startled. — What relation are you again? —

— Her sister. I was here when you bled her the first time, Dr. Crouch. And the second time, and the third. —

— And you can see how she's benefited, — said Nurse Poole.

— I can tell you she has not. —

— Because you have no training, girl! You don't know what to look for. —

— Do you wish me to treat her or not? — snapped Dr. Crouch.

— Yes, sir, but not to bleed her dry! —

Nurse Poole said, coldly: — Either hold your tongue or leave the ward, Miss Connolly! And allow the doctor to do what's necessary. —

— I have no time to bleed her today, anyway. — Dr. Crouch pointedly looked at his pocket watch. — I have an appointment in an hour, and then a lecture to prepare. I'll stop in to see the patient first thing in the morning. Perhaps by then, it will be more obvious to Miss, er— —

— Connolly, — said Rose.

— — to Miss Connolly that further treatment is indeed necessary. — He snapped his watch closed. — Gentlemen, I shall see you at the morning lecture, nine A.M. Good night. — He gave a nod, and turned to leave. As he strode away, the four medical students trailed after like obedient ducklings.

Rose ran after them. — Sir? Mr. Marshall, isn't it? —

The tallest of the students turned. It was the dark-haired young man who'd earlier questioned the wisdom of bleeding a laboring mother, the student who'd said he'd grown up on a farm. One look at his ill-fitting suit told her that he indeed came from humbler circumstances than his classmates. She had been a seamstress long enough to recognize good cloth, and his suit was of inferior quality, its woolen fabric dull and shapeless and lacking the sheen of a fine broadcloth. As his classmates continued out of the ward, Mr. Marshall stood looking at her expectantly. He has tired eyes, she thought, and such a weary face for a young man. Unlike the others, he gazed straight at her, as though regarding an equal.

— I couldn't help but hear your words to the doctor, — she said. — About bleeding. —

The young man shook his head. — I spoke too freely, I'm afraid. —

— Is it true, then? What you said? —

— I only described my observations. —

— And am I wrong, sir? Should I allow him to bleed my sister? —

He hesitated. Glanced, uneasily, at Nurse Poole, who was watching them with clear disapproval. — I'm not qualified to give advice. I'm only a first-year student. Dr. Crouch is my preceptor, and a fine doctor. —

— I've watched him bleed her three times, and each time he and the nurses claim she's improved. But to tell God's truth, I see no improvement. Every day, I see only… — She stopped, her voice breaking, her throat thick with tears. She said, softly: — I only want what's best for Aurnia. —

Nurse Poole cut in: — You're asking a medical student? You think he knows better than Dr. Crouch? — She gave a snort. — You might as well ask a stable boy, — she said, and walked out of the ward.

For a moment Mr. Marshall was silent. Only after Nurse Poole was out of the room did he speak again, and his words, though gentle, confirmed Rose's worst fears.

— I would not bleed her, — he said quietly. — It would do no good. —

— What would you do? If she were your own sister? —

The man gave the sleeping Aurnia a pitying look. — I would help her sit up in bed. Apply cool compresses for the fever, morphine for pain. I would see above all that she receives sufficient nourishment and fluids. And comfort, Miss Connolly. If I had a sister suffering so, that's what I would give her. — He looked at Rose. — Comfort, — he said sadly, and walked away.

Rose wiped away tears and walked back to Aurnia's bed, past a woman vomiting in a basin, another whose leg was red and swollen with erysipelas. Women in labor, women in pain. Outside, the cold rain of November fell, but in here, with the woodstove burning and the windows shut, the air was close and stifling and foul with disease.

Was I wrong to bring her here? Rose wondered. Should I have instead kept her at home, where she would not have to listen all night to these terrible groans, these pitiful whimpers? The room in their boardinghouse was cramped and cold, and Dr. Crouch had recommended Aurnia be moved to the hospital, where he could more easily attend her. — For charity cases such as your sister's, — he'd said, — the cost will be only what your family can bear. — Warm meals, a staff of nurses and physicians— all this would be waiting for her, Dr. Crouch had assured them.

But not this, thought Rose, looking down the row of suffering women. Her gaze stopped on Bernadette, who now lay silent. Slowly, Rose approached the bed, staring down at the young woman who, only five days ago, had laughed as she'd held her newborn son in her arms.

Bernadette had stopped breathing.