At the other end of the cemetery, where the child was being laid to rest, a loud wail rose from the mourners, a woman’s cry so ragged with pain that Rose turned and looked toward the other grave. Only then did she see the ghostly silhouette approaching them through the fog. The figure emerged from its veil of mist, and Rose recognized the face peering out from beneath the hood of the cape. It was Mary Robinson, the young nurse from the hospital. Mary paused and looked over her shoulder, as though sensing that someone was behind her, but Rose saw no one except the other mourners, who stood like a circle of statues around the child’s grave.
“I didn’t know where else to find you,” said Mary. “I’m sorry for your sister. God rest her soul.”
Rose wiped her eyes, smearing tears and mist across her cheek. “You were kind to her, Miss Robinson. Far kinder than…” She stopped, not wanting to invoke Nurse Poole’s name. Not wanting to speak ill of the dead.
Mary moved closer. As Rose blinked away tears, she focused on the young nurse’s tense face, her pinched eyes. Mary leaned in, and her voice dropped to a whisper, her words almost lost in the scrape of the gravediggers’ shovels.
“There are people inquiring about the child.”
Rose gave a weary sigh and looked down at her niece, who lay serene in her arms. Little Meggie had inherited Aurnia’s sweet temperament, and she was content to lie quietly and study the world with her wide eyes. “I’ve given them my answer. She stays with her own people. With me.”
“Rose, they’re not from the infant asylum. I promised Miss Poole that I’d say nothing, but now I cannot remain silent. The night the baby was born, after you left the room, your sister told us…” Suddenly Mary fell still, her gaze riveted not on Rose, but on something in the distance.
“Miss Robinson?”
“Keep the child safe,” Mary said. “Keep her hidden.”
Rose turned to see what Mary was looking at, and when she saw Eben stride out of the fog, her throat went dry. Though her hands were shaking, she stood her ground, resolved not to be bullied. Not today, not here, beside her sister’s grave. As he drew closer, she saw that he was carrying her satchel, the same bag she’d brought with her to Boston four months ago. Contemptuously, he threw it at her feet.
“I took the liberty of packing your belongings,” he said. “Since you are no longer welcome at Mrs. O’Keefe’s establishment.”
She picked up the bag from the mud, her face flushing with outrage at the thought of Eben pawing through her clothes, her private possessions.
“And don’t come begging for my charity,” he added.
“Was that what you forced on me last night? Charity?”
Straightening, she met his gaze, and felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sight of his bruised lip. Did I do that? Good for me. Her cold retort clearly enraged him, and he took a step closer, then glanced at the two gravediggers still at work filling in the hole. He halted, his hand balled in a fist. Go ahead, she thought. Hit me, while I hold your daughter in my arms. Let the world see what kind of coward you are.
His lips peeled back, like an animal baring its teeth, and his words came out in a whisper, tight and dangerous. “You had no right to talk to the Night Watch. They came this morning, during breakfast. All the other lodgers are gossiping about it.”
“I only told them the God’s truth. What you did to me.”
“As if anyone believes you. You know what I told Mr. Pratt? I told him what you really are. A little cock-tease. I told him how I took you in, fed you, housed you, just to please my wife. And this is how you repay my generosity!”
“Do you not even care that she’s gone?” Rose looked down at the grave. “You didn’t come here to say goodbye. ’Tis only to bully me, that’s why you’re here. While your own wife—”
“My own dear wife couldn’t abide you, either.”
Rose’s gaze snapped up to his. “You’re lying.”
“Don’t believe me?” He gave a snort. “You should have heard the things she whispered to me while you slept. What a burden you were, just a millstone she had to drag around, because she knew you’d starve without our charity.”
“I worked for my keep! Every day, I did.”
“As if I couldn’t find a dozen other girls, cheaper girls, just as handy with a needle and thread? Go on, go out there, see what kind of position you land. See how long it takes before you’re starving. You’ll come back to me begging.”
“For you?” It was Rose’s turn to laugh, and she did, though hunger had clenched her stomach into a knot. She had hoped that Eben would awaken sober this morning, to feel at least a twinge of regret for what he’d done last night. That with Aurnia’s death, he’d suddenly appreciate the treasure he’d lost, and would be a better man for his grief. But she’d been as foolishly trusting as Aurnia, to believe that he could ever rise above his petty pride. Last night, Rose had humiliated him, and in the light of day he stood stripped of all pretense. She saw no grief in his eyes, only wounded vanity, and now she took pleasure from slicing the wound even deeper.
“Yes, maybe I’ll go hungry,” she added. “But at least I look after my own. I see to my sister’s burial. I’ll raise her child. What kind of a man do you think people will call you when they hear you gave up your own daughter? That you didn’t pay a penny to bury your own wife?”
His face flushed scarlet, and he glanced at the two diggers, who had finished their task and now stood listening, rapt with attention. Tight-lipped, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of coins. “Here!” he snapped, and held them out to the diggers. “Take it!”
The older man glanced uneasily at Rose. “The lady here paid us already, sir.”
“Goddamn it, take the bloody money!” Eben grabbed the man’s dirt-stained hand and slapped the coins into his palm. Then he looked at Rose. “Consider my obligation fulfilled. And now you have something that belongs to me.”
“You don’t care a whit about Meggie. Why would you want her?”
“It’s not the brat I want. It’s the other things. Aurnia’s things. I’m her husband, so by all rights her possessions come to me.”
“There is nothing.”
“The hospital told me they gave you her belongings last night.”
“Is that all you want?” She removed the small bundle she’d tied around her waist and handed it to him. “It’s yours, then.”
He opened the bundle, and the soiled night frock and hair ribbon fell to the ground. “Where’s the rest?”
“Her ring is there.”
“This piece of tin?” He held up Aurnia’s good-luck ring with the stones of colored glass. He snorted and tossed it at Rose’s feet. “Worthless. You’ll find one just like it on the finger of every cheap girl in Boston.”
“She left her wedding ring at home. You know that.”
“I’m talking about the necklace. A gold locket. Never told me how she got it, and all these months she refused to sell it, even though I could’ve used the money for the shop. For all that I’ve put up with, I deserve at least that much in return.”
“You don’t deserve one fine hair from her head.”
“Where is it?”
“I pawned it. How do you think I paid for her burial?”
“It was worth far more than this,” he retorted, pointing at the grave.
“It’s gone, Eben. I paid for this grave, and you’re not welcome here. You gave my sister no peace while she was alive. The least you can do is allow her to rest in peace now.”
He glanced at the old gravedigger, who was glowering at him. Oh, Eben was quick to hit a woman when no one was looking, but now he had to struggle to keep his fists at his sides, his abusive tongue in check. All he said was, “You’ll hear more about this later, Rose.” Then he turned and walked away.
“Miss? Miss?”
Rose turned to the old digger, who met her gaze with a look of sympathy. “You already paid us. I expect you’ll want this. It should keep you and the baby fed for a time
.”
She stared at the coins that he’d placed in her hand. And she thought: For a while, this will hold off our hunger. It will pay for a wet nurse.
The two laborers gathered up their tools and left Rose standing beside the fresh mound of Aurnia’s grave. Once the dirt settles, she thought, I will buy you a stone marker. Perhaps I can save enough to engrave more than just your name, darling. A carving of an angel, or a few lines of a poem to tell the world how much emptier it is for having lost you.
She heard muffled sobs as the mourners from the other funeral now began to file out of the cemetery. She watched pallid faces swaddled in black wool float by in the mist. So many here to mourn the loss of a child. Where are your mourners, Aurnia?
Only then did she remember Mary Robinson. She glanced around, but did not see the nurse anywhere. The arrival of Eben, spoiling for a fight, must have driven her off. Yet another grudge Rose would always carry against him.
Drops of rain splashed her face. The other mourners, heads bent, filed from the cemetery toward waiting carriages and warm suppers. Only Rose lingered, clutching Meggie as rain muddied the earth.
“Sleep well, darling,” she whispered.
She picked up her satchel and Aurnia’s scattered belongings. Then she and Meggie left St. Augustine’s and headed toward the slums of South Boston.
Ten
“MIDWIFERY IS the branch of medicine which treats of conception and its consequences. And today, you have heard some of those consequences. Many of them, alas, tragic…”
Even from the grand stairway outside the auditorium, Norris could hear the booming voice of Dr. Crouch, and he hastened up the steps, vexed that he had arrived so late for morning lectures. But last night he had once again spent in the gruff company of Wall-eyed Jack, an expedition that had taken them south to Quincy. The whole way, Jack had complained about his back, which was the only reason he had asked Norris to accompany him on this latest run. They had returned to Boston well after midnight, carting only one specimen in such poor shape that Dr. Sewall, upon peeling back the tarp, had grimaced at the smell. “This one has been in the ground for days,” Sewall had complained. “Could you not use your noses? The stink alone should have told you!”
Norris could still smell that stink on his hair, his clothes. It did not ever leave you, but wormed its way like maggots under your skin, until every breath you inhaled was infused with it, and you could not tell living flesh from dead. He smelled it now as he climbed the stairs to the auditorium, like a walking corpse trailing its own scent of decay. He pulled open the door and quietly slipped into the lecture hall, where Dr. Crouch was now pacing the stage as he spoke.
“…though a branch of medicine distinct from surgery and physic, the practice of midwifery requires knowledge of anatomy and physiology, pathology and…” Dr. Crouch paused, his gaze fixed on Norris, who had made it only a few paces down the aisle, in search of an empty seat. The sudden silence snagged the attention of everyone in the room more dramatically than any shout could have. The audience turned like a many-eyed beast and looked at Norris, who was pinned in place by all the stares.
“Mr. Marshall,” said Crouch. “We’re honored you’ve chosen to join us.”
“I’m sorry, sir! I have no excuse.”
“Indeed. Well, find a seat!”
Norris spotted an empty chair and quickly sat down, in the row just ahead of Wendell and his two friends.
On stage, Crouch cleared his throat and continued. “And so to conclude, gentlemen, I leave you with this thought: The physician is sometimes all that stands in the way of darkness. When we enter the gloomy chambers of sickness, we are there to do battle, to offer divine hope and courage to those pitiful souls whose very lives hang in the balance. So remember that sacred trust, which may soon be placed on your shoulders.” Crouch planted his short legs on center stage, and his voice rang out like a call to war. “Be true to the calling! Be true to those who place their lives in your most worthy hands.”
Crouch gazed up expectantly at his audience, which for a few seconds sat utterly silent. Then Edward Kingston rose to clap, loudly and conspicuously, a gesture that was not unnoticed by Crouch. Others quickly joined, until the whole hall echoed with applause.
“Well. I’d call that a Hamlet-worthy performance,” said Wendell, his dry appraisal lost in the din of clapping hands. “When does he roll around on the floor and perform the death scene?”
“Hush, Wendell,” cautioned Charles. “Do you want to get us all into trouble?”
Dr. Crouch left the stage and sat down in the front row with the other faculty members. Now Dr. Aldous Grenville, who was both dean of the medical college and Charles’s uncle, stood to address the students. Though his hair was already silver, Dr. Grenville stood tall and unstooped, a striking figure who commanded the room with just one look.
“Thank you, Dr. Crouch, for a most illuminating and inspiring lecture on the art and science of midwifery. We move on to the final segment of today’s program, an anatomical dissection presented by Dr. Erastus Sewall, our distinguished professor of surgery.”
In the front row, portly Dr. Sewall rose heavily to his feet and strode onstage. There the two gentlemen heartily shook hands; Dr. Grenville once again sat down, granting Sewall the limelight.
“Before I proceed,” said Sewall, “I wish to call on a volunteer. Perhaps a gentleman from among the first-year students would be bold enough to assist me as prosector?”
There was a silence as five rows of young men discreetly stared down at their own shoes.
“Come now, you must get your hands bloody if you’re to understand the human machine. You’ve only just begun your medical studies, so you are strangers to the dissecting room. Today, I’ll help you make the acquaintance of this marvelous mechanism, this intricate and noble fabric. If one of you will just be bold enough?”
“I will,” said Edward, and he stood.
Professor Grenville said, “Mr. Edward Kingston has volunteered. Please join Dr. Sewall on the stage.”
As Edward headed up the aisle, he shot a cocksure grin at his classmates. A look that said: I’m no coward like the rest of you.
“Where does he get his nerve?” Charles murmured.
“We will all get our turn up there,” said Wendell.
“Look at how he drinks up the attention. I swear, I’d be trembling like a sinner.”
Wheels rumbled across the wooden stage as a table was rolled out from the wings, propelled by an assistant. Dr. Sewall shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves as the assistant next brought out a small table with a tray of instruments. “Each one of you,” he said, “will have a chance to wield the knife in the dissecting room. But even so, your exposure will be far too brief. With such a shortage of anatomical specimens, you must not let a single opportunity go to waste. Whenever a subject becomes available, I hope you will seize the chance to further your knowledge. Today, to our great good fortune, such an opportunity has presented itself.” He paused to slip on an apron. “The art of dissection,” he said as he tied it behind his waist, “is exactly that—an art. Today, I will show you how it should be done. Not like a knacker butchering a carcass, but like a sculptor, coaxing a work of art from a block of marble. That’s what I intend to do today—not merely dissect a body, but reveal the beauty of every muscle and every organ, every nerve and blood vessel.” He turned to the table where the body lay, still draped. “Let us reveal today’s subject.”
Norris felt anticipatory nausea as Dr. Sewall reached for the shroud. Already he had guessed who lay beneath it, and he dreaded the unveiling of the half-rotten corpse he and Wall-eyed Jack had unearthed last night. But when Sewall swept off the sheet, it was not the stinking man.
It was a female. And even from his seat in the auditorium, Norris recognized her.
Curly red hair cascaded over the edge of the table. Her head was turned slightly, so that she faced the audience with half-closed eyes and parted lips. The lecture hall had fallen so
quiet that Norris could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. That corpse is Rose Connolly’s sister. The sister she adored. How in God’s name had the girl’s beloved sister ended up on the anatomist’s table?
Dr. Sewall calmly picked up a knife from the tray and moved to the corpse’s side. He seemed oblivious to the shocked silence that had fallen over the room, and when he regarded his subject, he might have been any tradesman, about to set to work. He looked at Edward, who stood frozen at the foot of the table. No doubt Edward, too, had recognized the body.
“I advise you to slip on an apron.”
Edward did not seem to hear him.
“Mr. Kingston, unless you wish to soil that very fine coat you’re wearing, I suggest you remove your jacket and put on an apron. Then come assist me.”
Even arrogant Eddie, it appeared, had lost his nerve, and he swallowed hard as he donned the neck-to-ankle apron and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
Dr. Sewall made the first cut. It was a brutal slash, from breastbone to pelvis. As the skin parted, the abdomen released its contents and loops of bowel spilled out, pouring forth from the open belly to hang in dripping streamers over the side of the table.
“The bucket,” said Sewall. He looked up at Edward, who was staring down in horror at the gaping wound. “Will somebody position the bucket? Since my assistant here seems incapable of any purposeful movement whatsoever.”
Uneasy laughter rippled through the audience at the spectacle of their overbearing classmate being so publicly yanked down a few notches. Flushing, Edward snatched up the wooden bucket from the instrument table and set it down on the floor, to catch the loops of dripping intestine as they slithered from the belly.
“Lying atop the bowel,” said Dr. Sewall, “is a caul of tissue called the omentum. I have just sliced through it, releasing the intestines, which you now see cascading from the abdomen. In older gentlemen, especially those who have indulged too heartily in the pleasures of the table, this caul can be quite dense with fat. But in this young female subject, I find rather sparse deposits.” He lifted the sheet of almost transparent omentum and held it up in bloodied hands for the audience to see. Then he leaned over the table and tossed the mass of tissue into the waiting bucket. It landed with a wet plop.