In the meantime, he must go back to his room and study the words she had taught him.
* * *
In spite of the extra work caused by the continuing preparations for the wedding, and the presence of the American guests, Tom found time to be in the garden, waiting for Jenny, every night. And to his delight, the maid always came. She was always businesslike, however, and although his reading improved rapidly, he made little progress with wooing her.
Three nights before the wedding, he could no longer concentrate on the primer. To his surprise, Jenny’s usually brusque manner had changed as well. Tonight, she let him hold her hand, and even allowed him a kiss. When his arms crept around her, she pressed against him briefly, before pulling away and jumping to her feet. “No!”
He stared up at her, startled. “But, Jenny ....”
For the first time since he had known her, she appeared flustered. Even in the moonlight, he could see her cheeks were colored.
“I should have known better than to…. Oh, what was I thinking? You mustn't ... we mustn't .... ” She brushed his hands away and fled into the house.
Tom watched her go, stunned, and then angry. Just as he was making progress, this! Who could ever understand what a woman was thinking?
Hot with disappointment and humiliation, Tom made his own way back to the servant's hall, throwing a pebble at the fat ginger tabby, who hissed at him and ran away. Perhaps it was just as well, he told himself. Now he could concentrate on his work which, truth be told, he had been neglecting lately. If he wished to be promoted again, he must focus on pleasing Blodgett.
But as he strode to his quarters, all he could think of was Jenny's lovely face.
Chapter Five
Tom stood rigidly against the flocked green wallpaper in the formal dining hall, wearing spotless white gloves and the most impassive expression he could muster. His irritation at Jenny's rejection yesterday had lessened when Blodgett called him aside to tell him he would be serving the guests of honor tonight, at a formal dinner to celebrate the upcoming nuptials, an assignment which earned Tom looks of envy from several of the other footmen.
“You've done well these past two years, Tom West,” the butler said, nodding his heavy head approvingly. “I believe you are ready.”
Tom had served the Marlowes at dinner before, but this was by far the grandest affair he had seen. Banks of orchids and lilies from the Marlowe's hothouses spilled from every polished table and sideboard; mounds of imported chocolates filled crystal bowls. Fresh oranges and lemons had been shipped at great expense from Spain, while multiple courses of every type of meat, fish, and pastry were piled on silver platters in the kitchen, waiting to be served.
If the master was trying to impress his future son-in-law and his relatives, Tom thought, standing at his post in the dining room, he was sure to succeed.
A string quartet played a lively tune in the background as guests chatted in small groups in the great hall before filing into the dining room, the women in wide-skirted satin and brocade gowns, throats sparkling with jewels, heads covered in feathered and bejeweled headdresses like peacocks' crests.
Miss Abigail Woodbury was dressed in a blue gown simpler in cut than those of the other women, and her upswept chestnut hair was innocent of powder. She had the same unaffected air as when she had descended from the carriage, and she looked about the gathering with open curiosity in her bright eyes.
As she passed by, he heard her remark to her father in a low-pitched voice, “Oranges, in this season? They must have cost a fortune. And look at those dozens of servants standing about, as if we are children unable to do the least little thing for ourselves.”
“Now, none of that, Abigail!” Tom heard her father reply, his voice as low as hers. “Remember, we are guests here. They have their own ways, and we have ours.”
“Yes, Papa, but you yourself said ....”
“Shh. This is not the time or place.”
It only proved what he had heard of Americans, Tom thought, his blank face masking his musings: they were brash and uncultured, unappreciative of the finer things in life. He felt as insulted by the young woman's criticism as if he himself were Lord Marlowe.
He forgot the young American woman's comment as he watched for Blodgett's signal, like a musician awaiting the rise of the conductor's baton. It came—a slight nod of the head—and he fetched a platter to serve the food.
Throughout the meal Maeve Marlowe chatted brightly to her fiancé, leaning over several times to place a possessive hand on his sleeve. She giggled whenever he made a comment, pale lashes fluttering as if he were the wittiest man in the room. The two Americans, seated next to Lord and Lady Marlowe, were deep in conversation with the guests sitting next to them. Tom noted in the back of his mind that Miss Woodbury and Jonathan Marlowe seemed to be getting along very well.
The rest of his attention was focused on serving the dishes in the correct order. Occasionally he glanced at Campbell, at the station next to his, for guidance. There was no room for errors tonight.
Midway through the meal, as he stepped forward with a bottle of wine to refill Miss Marlowe's glass, he overheard Lord Corbus recount some long-winded story about his adventures in America. Throughout the evening, the visitor had made light jokes about his political differences with his American cousin, Miles Woodbury, but now the conversation began to take on a darker edge when one of the guests brought up the American War of Independence.
“Ah yes, the struggle with the colonies. The truth is, that war was not about taxes, whatever they may claim,” Anatole Corbus said, taking a long draught of wine and staring pointedly across the table at Mr. Woodbury.
"No? Then what was it about?" asked Lord Marlowe blankly, who had enjoyed the excellent Bordeaux so well that he was having trouble following the conversation.
“As it happens, my cousin is right. It was not about taxes, it was about freedom,” Mr. Woodbury said, his slight smile becoming tighter.
“No, the war was about land,” Corbus said, his face flushed. “You Americans are greedy for it. Admit it. The country is full of all you could wish for and yet you're never satisfied. Even before Yorktown your compatriots were swarming westward in violation of Britain’s treaty with the Indians. Now, any penniless wastrel with an ox and a plow can cross the mountains and have an estate as large as that of a duke or an earl. That's what you gained by treason against your king and motherland! You may as well admit it.”
Lord Marlowe blinked as his flushed head swiveled from one of his guests to the others. Despite his seat in Parliament, his interests ran no further than hunting and fishing, and he was not used to heated political debates at his table.
The gray-haired, plain-dressed American's face turned dark red. His daughter shot him a warning look. “Papa—”
“Greed?” Mr. Woodbury threw down his fork. “I am heartily ashamed so many of my countrymen have failed to keep promises made to the natives of our land and have no doubt that this sin will someday come down upon our heads. But greed is not a uniquely American vice. Look about you! Whose labor pays for a fine estate like this? For the wines, the servants?”
Anatole tossed aside his napkin before Lord Marlowe could react to this ill-considered attack on his generosity as host. “If you're referring to the sugar plantations I own in the West Indies—” he began.
“I do not need to look that far. Right here in England, there is a chasm between the rich and the poor so great the classes might as well be different species, rather than God's children, equally valuable in His eyes. Forgive me for speaking so bluntly, Lord Marlowe, but in America you'll find no beggars as I saw on the streets of London. Our country is made of honest, hard-working yeomen, who expect only what they can wrest by the labor of their own hands. To us, one man is as good as another. It is only upon such people that freedom can be founded, and thank providence, we have obtained it.”
Anatole' eyes narrowed. “One man as good as another to you, I presume, except the
Indian and the black man?”
Mr. Woodbury's face flushed darker. “I acknowledge that we have made errors. But we are forging a new nation from a wilderness, a feat which has never been done before. Perfection will not be reached in one generation, or ten. But when my countrymen have finished, I shall wager my last penny that Europe will look at us with admiration and envy.”
There was a brief pause while Lord Marlowe took a sip of his Bordeaux and regarded it as if wishing it were something stronger. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he said soothingly, although no one appeared to hear him.
Anatole's smile revealed sharp teeth. “Spoken like a true brother-in-arms to your new president, John Adams. How was your presentation in court, by the way? Has the king fully recovered from his recent illness?”
Lord Marlowe looked relieved by the return to a topic he could follow, and he dug into his saddle of beef with new appetite as Mr. Woodbury acknowledged Anatole's change in subject with a bow of the head. The American's color returned to normal, and he seemed ashamed of himself.
“Your king was more gracious than I would have expected, considering the circumstances of our colonies' separation,” he admitted. “Still, nothing will suit me better than to return to my own home in Cambridge.”
“And when will that be?” Wine had made Maeve brave enough to join the conversation. Her hand rested possessively on Anatole's sleeve, and she had been following the conversation with more than her usual interest.
Mr. Woodbury looked at her with a smile. “Directly after the wedding, Miss Marlowe. We sail from Plymouth a week hence.”
Maeve turned her dark-rimmed gaze on Abigail, running her eyes contemptuously over the American's simple blue frock. “And you, Miss Woodbury? Will you be sorry to give up the center of fashion and intellect for the wilds of America?”
“Oh, I do not think Cambridge is so wild,” Abigail said mildly. “I believe the average American lives as comfortably as most Englishmen, if not more so. Why, the shops in Boston carry the same merchandise one can find here!”
The subject turned away from politics, and tensions slowly defused.
But when Maeve turned to her fiancé, she clucked her tongue. “How ungrateful those Americans are, considering we have given them everything they pride themselves on possessing,” she murmured. “I for one say good riddance to the lot of them.”
Anatole looked at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but their expression was humorless. “I agree, my sweet. However, after a few more years of brawling with each other I wager they'll come crawling back to us for good governance.” His voice rose again, and Abigail Woodbury fixed him with a hard look before returning to her conversation with Sir Jonathan.
Standing directly behind Anatole and Maeve with a tray of food, Tom had heard the entire exchange but was barely aware of its undercurrents. He had learned a considerable amount of politics and culture from overhearing other dinner conversations, but tonight he cared little about what the Marlowes or their guests were discussing. America held no interest for him. It could have been the moon for all he cared.
He refilled their wine glasses—Miss Marlowe's normally pallid cheeks were already flushed—and then made another long trip downstairs to the kitchens, returning with a large platter of sole.
What happened next was Lord Corbus's fault, really. Illustrating a point with a flourish, the guest of honor threw back his hand with such force that it knocked the heavy platter out of Tom's hands as he was passing by. Fish slithered onto the carpet as if swarming from the net. Anatole swiveled around, heavy black brows flying downward, and Maeve turned in her seat at the same moment.
Frozen, Tom realized he was once again the focus of attention. Even the two Americans broke off their conversations and glanced in his direction.
Dropping to his knees, he mumbled an apology and scooped the fish back onto the platter as quickly as possible, making as dignified a retreat as possible. When he burst into the kitchen, Mrs. Snow looked up from making pastry with a patch of flour on her plump cheek.
“Back already? But you just—”
“Have you another platter of sole?” His words were uncharacteristically short. “Quickly!”
“But ....”
He brushed away the cook's questions and hurried back up the two flights of steps to the dining hall, slowing to a stroll just outside the open doors. There he hesitated, reluctant to enter. Campbell must have noticed the mishap, and of course there would be no keeping it from Blodgett. Tom heartily wished he could have found someone else to finish serving in his place, but there was no one. The entire staff was in service tonight.
Disaster ... disaster ….
He forced himself to enter. Further lingering would only throw off the delicate timing of the seven-course meal and draw more notice.
Campbell was busy decanting a new bottle of wine, and he hoped by some stroke of luck the other footmen had missed the whole thing. Neither Miss Marlowe nor her fiancé looked up as Tom returned to tend to their plates. Maybe by some miracle they had forgotten the incident, he hoped. Or, at least, perhaps they had chosen to overlook it. The thick Persian carpet had muffled the clatter; perhaps the disruption had not been as great as he had feared.
He'd know soon enough.
* * *
Tom was able to avoid Blodgett until after the guests had departed, and while the rotund butler was busy in the pantry counting the silverware, Tom edged discreetly toward the servants' stairs. He had no doubt that he'd get an earful in the morning. Nothing that happened in the great house escaped the butler's notice, not even a misplaced fork. So much for some day becoming head footman, Tom thought gloomily as he headed toward his room. After tonight, he'd be lucky not to be sacked.
As usual, his thoughts turned to Jenny. What would she think when she heard, as surely she must? He'd never earn her good opinion now, much less her heart.
As he looked up his mood sank even further for, teetering toward him in high-heeled slippers was Miss Maeve Marlowe. Despite the lateness of the hour she still wore her evening gown, although her coiffure was askew and her smile was lopsided.
He had barely time to wonder what she was doing in this narrow passage, which normally was frequented only by staff. Here, there was no corridor for him to turn into, no alcove in which to duck. He drew up flat against the wall, hoping she'd pass by.
Instead, she stopped directly in front of Tom and cocked her head, studying him closely. His neck grew hot under the tight stock. So much for remaining invisible, he thought in despair. It was a task he seemed to be incapable of, especially tonight.
Pretending to look at some far-off spot in the distance, he grew vaguely aware of her wide-skirted silk gown adorned with pink and green embroidered flowers, of mouse-brown curls arranged in some new fashion, and a sickeningly sweetly fragrance that must be one of her French perfumes.
“It was you!” she said suddenly in her high-pitched voice. “You're the gardener who stopped the horses, aren't you?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, miss.”
She clapped her hands. “I knew it! What luck that you were the one to serve us tonight. If not for the fish, I shouldn't have recognized you.” She sashayed away, in the direction from which she had come.
Tom was speechless. He had nearly ruined her engagement dinner, and she did not seem to mind! Mopping the sweat from his brow, he galloped downstairs to his quarters. He was splashing water on his face when Campbell appeared in the doorway wearing a quizzical look.
“You're wanted.” The other footman jerked a thumb toward the ceiling.
Still dripping, Tom glowered upward. “Whatever it is, can't one of the parlor maids handle it?”
“Apparently not. Miss Marlowe requested your services specifically.” Campbell remained expressionless, but his deep-set gray eyes looked speculative.
Cursing under his breath, Tom jerked his wig back on over his close-cropped hair, shrugged into his blue livery jacket, and fastened the gold buttons. Straig
htening his wig, he headed toward the stairs.
Before stepping through the tall, carved doors that led to Miss Marlowe's chambers, he hesitated again. The sense of unease, which had troubled him all evening, grew stronger. He yearned to turn and leave. But of course, he could not.
The ornate antechamber led to Maeve's sleeping quarters, which he had never seen. Passing through the final set of doors, he had an impression of extravagantly curved chairs and of heavy dark-red curtains hanging from massive mahogany bed posts. Miss Marlowe was reclining on a chaise longue in a carefully arranged pose, hands folded in her lap, as she watched him enter.
“Those paintings over there.” She raised a languid arm to point, disarranging the folds of her green dressing gown, which coiled about her like a serpent. “I am not satisfied with their arrangement. Please switch them.”
Two large paintings flanked the bed. One pictured a nymph with mounds of pink flesh looking coquettishly over her shoulder, while in the other a girl with ropes of golden hair simpered while reclining on a divan. He lifted the first painting off the wall and nearly staggered under the weight. The ornate, gilded frame was surprisingly heavy. So that was why Miss Marlowe had not called a housemaid, he thought. Of course that did not answer the question of why the trivial task could not have waited until daylight.
As he carried the painting to the other side, he grew uncomfortably aware of Miss Marlowe's close-set eyes watching his every move. When the two pieces of art were hung again, he could hardly tell the difference. It was of no significance to him how she chose to arrange her room, however. He waited impatiently to be dismissed.
“Perfect! That's much more to my satisfaction,” Miss Marlowe said without looking at the paintings, and with one swift movement she rose and approached him, putting a hand on his forearm. He almost jumped. Her cold touch felt like that of a reptile. “You do know that I'm to marry soon, do you not?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.
The Gardener Page 5