The Gardener

by Catherine McGreevy

  His words died away as a maid with a narrow waist and bell-like skirt slipped into the room, as pretty as Rosie was plain. The girl reminded him of a hand-colored engraving of an angel he had seen somewhere: eyes blue as irises, mouth soft and pink as a rosebud. Silver-gilt tendrils escaped her mobcap, clustering around her face like a halo.

  Just then her eyes fell on his dirt-encrusted hands, and he quickly hid them behind his back as a new wave of heat rolled up his neck and face.

  Blodgett didn't notice Tom's sudden stammer. “Ah, here's Jenny. She can fetch you whatever you need. Well, lass? Can Lady Marlowe spare you for a minute?”

  “I'm in no hurry, sir,” she said, glancing curiously at Tom.

  “Very well, then, show this fellow the water pump. As you can see, he needs it!”

  Blodgett strode away, and the girl rolled up her sleeves to reveal firm arms with pink elbows. Her skirt swung gracefully when she moved, and he caught a flash of white petticoats and a neatly turned ankle. Tom gulped. “May I help you, miss?”

  “Call me Jenny. Yes, bring those buckets. Come this way.” Although authoritative, her voice was soft and her words well formed, he noticed, not like his own rough speech.

  As they carried several loads of steaming water from the kitchen, he noted that despite her fragile appearance, she carried the heavy buckets without spilling a drop. It was all he could do to keep up with her quick steps.

  “Careful.” A pair of dimples appeared when he nearly tripped over the threshold. “If you do not hold them steady, you'll end up washing the floor instead of yourself.”

  Blushing, he struggled not to allow more water to slosh over the sides while dodging servants, but it was more difficult than he had expected. Everyone seemed to be hurrying in all different directions, like bees in a hive.

  After the steaming water was poured into the metal hipbath, he cleared his throat again, desperate to make conversation before the vision disappeared. “Excuse me, but how long have you—?”

  “Reach down that soap from the top shelf, if you please,” she said briskly. “No, not that perfumed one. Those round ones in the pink wrappers are for the mistress. They come all the way from France, you know.”

  Her clipped directions prevented any attempt at intimacy, but she smiled at him as she left the room. It was inevitable that he would see her again, he thought hopefully. And next time, he would make sure his hands were not filthy. Maybe, if he dressed correctly and learned to look and talk like one of the upper staff....

  Anxious to get started, he turned the key in the door lock and heard the mechanism fall into place with a reassuring click. People seemed to burst in and out of rooms without warning here, and it wouldn't do to become a laughing stock on his first day if someone burst in on him. An image of the short, plain seamstress with the mocking black eyes appeared in his mind. What was her name? Rosie. That one would never let him hear the end of it.

  He squeezed as much of his frame as possible into the hipbath and settled back with a sigh of enjoyment. In his old quarters, a quick splash of cold water had sufficed. In winter, he had to break the ice in the bowl, and often he hadn’t taken the trouble. Who minded a bit of dirt? Now, thinking of the soft voices he had heard giggling behind the door, he remembered to scrub. The strong brown soap felt like sandpaper and smelled like the very devil. It effectively polished off layers of skin, leaving him glowing like a lobster. He even remembered to rub lather into his hair, wincing as it burned into his eyes.

  Rosie had left new clothes for him piled on a chair by the door. While dressing, he understood at once why Blodgett had called for the seamstress's services. The sky-blue satin coat, presumably owned by the departed Jenkins, stretched tightly across his shoulders while the white breeches sagged a little in the seat. The smooth satin could not have felt more different than the roughly woven breeches and shirt that lay on the floor where he had discarded them.

  When he turned to the looking glass, fastening the neckcloth with clumsy fingers, he found a surprised-looking young man staring back at him. He’d never seen more than a few inches of his face at a time in the small, cracked mirror that hung over Lemley's washstand, and now he studied himself curiously.

  Long ago, his mother had shown him a picture of a prince wearing an outfit like the one he was wearing: tight silk stockings, satin breeches, and a long coat with turned-back facings held by gold buttons. Real gold, he suspected, fingering the heavy, cold metal, which felt as solid and shone as bright as the guinea Sir Jonathan had tossed him. It was hard to believe that under these fine clothes stood the same lout who had been dragged from the gardens less than an hour ago. He turned sideways, somehow unable to tear his gaze away from his reflection, and couldn't help wondering what Jenny would think if she saw him now.

  As he stepped out the door a passing housemaid smiled in his direction, and without thinking, he glanced over his shoulder. Then, with a shock, Tom realized she was smiling at him. The uniform was already working its magic.

  Chapter Two

  Tom was gathering his courage to speak to the housemaid who had smiled at him when Blodgett approached, accompanied by a tall, ruddy-faced footman who wore the same blue and cream livery as Tom. He watched with regret as the maid scurried away. She did not hold a candle to the lovely Jenny, of course, but still....

  Blodgett studied the newest footman again and nodded. “'Twill do for now. See to it that you learn your new duties quickly, and well. Lord Marlowe likes his staff to make a good impression on guests.”

  Tom cleared his throat and managed not to stutter. “Yes, sir.”

  "Very good, then." The butler gestured toward the craggy-featured footman towering behind him. “Do as Campbell says, and you'll have no trouble.”

  After he departed, Tom turned to his new companion. He felt as if he were gazing again into the looking glass, except the man under the powdered wig staring back at him was a good ten years older, with deep-set hazel eyes and a haughty air.

  “So you’re West, eh?” A trace of a Scottish burr roughened the other footman's accent. “They say you were a gardener before.” There was a sneer in the word "gardener," as if the word were an insult.

  “Yes, sir.” Tom wondered how many more times he would say those words today. His legs were cramping from standing so stiffly, but he didn't dare relax.

  “You needn't call me 'sir.' Campbell will do. Although you're bound to find things a mite different here than in the gardens. Mr. Blodgett is a strict taskmaster. So if you're not up to it ....” Campbell jerked a long, gloved finger across his throat, seemingly with relish.

  Tom's predecessor, the departed Jenkins, had apparently not been up to it. But Tom refused to show that he was intimidated. Remembering that an opportunity like this came up once in a lifetime, if that, he raised his chin higher, silently vowing he would do whatever it took to succeed. He met the Scotsman's eyes straight on and saw the contempt in them lessen fractionally.

  But the brusque voice with its subtle burr did not change. “Well, come along then. What are you waiting for?”

  They climbed a set of steep, narrow servants' stairs and followed a glossy-floored corridor lined with statues, not of pitted limestone like those in the gardens, but of smooth, veined white marble. Paintings in heavy gilt frames covered the walls, and Tom couldn't help turning to stare at their beauty.

  “As you know, we run one of the finest households in England,” the head footman said without slowing, and Tom hurried to match his pace. “Dukes and Earls come regularly to dine at Blackgrave Manor, and the gardens are counted among the best—”

  “I know,” Tom interrupted. He had grown up in the gardens and knew them better than anyone, no doubt better than the master himself. For ten years Tom had worked, pruned, and mulched his way along every inch of the acres of hothouses and gardens that stretched from the tall yew hedges near the house to the lake on the east where he had learned to swim after a fashion, on those rare occasions when he could steal away
from his duties.

  The footman fixed him with a glare and Tom dropped his head, staring at the narrow grout lines in the floor while his face burned. Even the lowest stable boy knew better than to interrupt a superior. He must do better than this if he hoped to keep his new position for long.

  To his relief, the experienced footman resumed his lecture after a brief pause. “As I said, dozens of important visitors come to see the gardens every year. Even Queen Anne herself once condescended ... under the fifth earl ... And, of course, soon Lord Corbus and his American relatives ...."

  Americans? Tom almost blurted out the word in surprise, but bit his tongue just in time. He had never seen an American. Rough ruffians, from what he had heard, disloyal to the king. But as he had hinted to Lemley, he couldn't help feeling a grudging admiration for the fact that they had somehow managed to win a war against the finest army in the world. He couldn't imagine what it must be like,

  * * *

  "Lord Marlowe takes pride in his footmen," Campbell ended his speech, puffing out his large chest. "He requires that they be the tallest that can be found, and in the most splendid physical condition. I hope you realize that it is an honor to be counted among them. "

  "Yes, sir."

  Blodgett's words came back to Tom: “You should fit the livery nicely.” So that was why I was chosen, he thought, somewhat disappointed. Not because he had saved Sir Jonathan Marlowe and his sister—that rated no more than the guinea—but because Tom had the good fortune to be exactly the same height as the departed Jenkins.

  “Lord Marlowe was pleased when Mr. Jonathan told him you worked on the premises.” Campbell confirmed Tom’s thoughts. “Trust me, it's no easy task to find a young man who stands nearly six and a half feet tall. He sent all the way to Glasgow for me five years ago. Paid my old master a fortune to give me up.”

  Tom summoned a suitably impressed look.

  Campbell gave him a sidelong glance. “You must have sprung up overnight for them to have overlooked you. Remember, though, height alone is not enough to succeed in this position. Always keep your face clean and your wig freshly powdered.”

  Tom nodded. “Yes, sir. Is that all?”

  “All? I haven’t begun!” Campbell scoffed. “People think footmen are just for show, but the truth is that the running of the entire household depends on us. We anticipate the family's needs before they do themselves, notice everything that goes on, yet remain discreet, ensure that everything—everything—moves smoothly, as if performed by invisible hands. If not, well ....” This time there was no need to draw a white-gloved finger across his throat.

  “And most of all,” Campbell fixed Tom with an eagle glare to emphasize the point, “you must remain invisible. Do your duties silently and without drawing the least amount of notice to yourself. If any member of the family remarks on your performance, even to praise it, you have failed.”

  Tom had often heard similar words from Lemley. But now, more than ever, he thought they made little sense. Why hire footmen based on appearance, then expect them to remain invisible? And how, in the name of all that was holy, could he, or anyone, anticipate someone else's wishes before that person realized them himself?

  His gut twisted as he contemplated the consequences for failure. Here, the smallest mistake would be magnified, the slightest misstep witnessed, discussed, and ridiculed by dozens of onlookers. Nothing that happened could be hidden from the house's many occupants.

  Then he remembered the maid who had smiled at him in the hall, and Jenny's golden curls and graceful body, and his spirits rose. Perhaps there would be compensations for the dangers. Whatever happened, he vowed to prove himself equal to the challenge. Fate had smiled on him, and he must take full advantage.

  With hard work and cleverness, he’d exceed everyone’s expectations until no one—not Jenny, not Campbell, not Blodgett—could deny he belonged here. Who knew? Perhaps he’d follow Blodgett’s path and one day even rise to butler!

  As Tom followed the Scottish footman's long steps down the corridor, one thought overshadowed the rest: when would he see the beautiful maid, Jenny, again?

  * * *

  The big Scot's gruff manner gradually relaxed as his protegé proved an apt pupil. But Campbell continued rapping out rules and directions without pausing, determined to forge Tom into a proper footman, worthy of Blackgrave Manor.

  “Never go about when The People are present,” Campbell instructed, closing a white-painted, gilt-edged door on a parlor upholstered in red brocade and opening another to a sitting room draped in green velvet. Out of Blodgett's earshot, the man's burr deepened, revealing an unexpectedly dry sense of humor. “You see them coming, you turn down another hall, quick as a mousie hiding from a hawk.”

  “If there's no time—?”

  “Just flatten yourself against the wall and stand still as a pillar. Trust me, they'll take no notice of you.”

  Campbell did not need to explain who “The People” were. Lord Marlowe's family's presence lingered in the elegant rooms even when they were absent, on their frequent trips to London or to visit titled friends on equally magnificent estates.

  When he had been banished to the gardens, Tom occasionally saw the master stroll past, or caught glimpses of the mistress wearing a large straw hat to protect her skin from the sun's rays as she cut her beloved roses. He occasionally had spotted Maeve's dark head on the other side of a hedge as well, while she walked with one of her few suitors. But the only time he had seen the master's daughter up close was the day he had stopped the runaway horses.

  Now everything was different. He saw Lord and Lady Marlowe almost every day, as they swept down the halls in their wigs and satins, sat in the breakfast room to take kippers and coffee, or entertained titled guests in their drawing rooms. Sometimes, Blodgett directed him to bear a tray up the stairs from the kitchen, the food covered to stay warm during the long trip. And as the Marlowes came and went, Tom opened doors, and made ready their carriage, until such duties came naturally.

  When Blodgett finally deemed the newest footman ready, Tom was directed to ride postern with one of the other footmen as the family made their social calls. It was his favorite duty. Traveling around with the wind in his face, descending from his perch and carrying the calling cards up to the other houses on a silver platter, back straight and head high, he felt as smug as a lordling himself. His life in the gardens, pleasant as it had been, seemed long ago.

  One day, Tom was called to carry a poisonous-looking green concoction to Sir Jonathan's room.

  "It's to cure hangovers," Campbell told him wryly. "Though if you ask me, it looks more like to turn one's stomach."

  Tom eyed it curiously, before tiptoeing in the room and leaving the tray on a table.

  "Eh? Who's that? Who's there? Curse you, whoever you are, and get the devil out!" The disheveled heir growled and pulled a pillow over his head.

  "Yes, sir," Tom said quietly, and bowed himself out.

  When Sir Jonathan finally emerged an hour later, he was perfectly dressed and groomed by his German valet, and passed by Tom as if he had never seen him before.

  Tom was relieved, but not surprised. Since the day the phaeton nearly tipped over, none of the Marlowes showed more awareness of Tom than of a Chinese vase in a corner. This pleased him, for it proved that he had learned to blend in. Even Lemley would be satisfied, Tom thought.

  The most exciting amenity in his new environment was not the soft bed and fine surroundings, though, but one he had not anticipated: the presence of females. For the first time in his life, he was around dozens of them, from the lowest blushing scullery maid to Lady Marlow’s lovely lady’s maid, Jenny. Under the friendly smiles, Tom quickly shed his shyness, and soon the awkward gardener was a thing of the past.

  Unfortunately he had little time to pursue the pleasures of the household, for Blodgett, merciless as a ship captain, kept him and the other footmen busy from before dawn until the last candle was snuffed out at night. After a f
ew months, satisfied with his newest staff member’s progress, the butler finally ordered Campbell to teach Tom how to care for the house’s treasures, among them the paintings and statues that lined the long marble corridors.

  “Mr. Blodgett,” Campbell explained as they walked from Roman bust to Greek statue, “expects the servants to know as much about the house's collection as do the Marlowes. We are the ones who care for them, after all.”

  Tom nodded, trying to remember everything he was told. He knew he must pay attention, for Blodgett was likely to quiz him tomorrow.

  “See that portrait over there? Painted by someone called Gainsborough a few years ago.” Campbell swept his arm toward a floor-to-ceiling image of a younger Lady Marlowe sitting in a fanciful garden amidst rolls of artfully draped fabric, broken pillars, with a very small dog at her feet, hair upswept into a towering powdered pyramid. “Very fashionable, very expensive. The fellow spent a week here, eating up all Lord Marlowe’s delicacies. Favors her a bit much, if you ask me,” he added with a grimace. “Her real nose is quite an inch longer than it appears there.”

  Tom nodded as they moved along.

  “And that painting over there, the small one, is said to have been painted by a fellow named Rembrandt, a Dutchman. Do not suppose you’ve heard of him either?”

  Shaking his head, Tom turned his attention to the rectangle of cracked, dark paint. He had to squint to make out the dim figures.

  “One of the Marlowes married a Countess from Flanders, who brought it with her as part of her dowry. They say it is the most valuable of the lot, for all it is the smallest.”

  Tom could barely make out the group of somberly dressed men involved in some unidentifiable activity. Their faces were obscured by shadows and old-fashioned ruffs encircled their necks like wheels. He thought to himself that he'd have traded it for a basket of hothouse oranges.

  Shortly after, however, he found himself pausing before another picture, unable to remove his gaze from it. The scene was simple: a newly plowed field under a spring sky, shaded by ancient oaks, with a tiny blue-smocked plowman in the corner driving a pair of oxen.