The Gardener

by Catherine McGreevy

  He hid his surprise at the change of topic. "Yes, Miss Marlowe. Of course."

  "Lord Corbus is rich and powerful. When he goes into politics, protecting the rights of sugar plantation owners to transport slaves, he will undoubtedly rise to national importance.”

  Her sickly perfume surrounded him like a net. Her lips parted and her strange, dark-rimmed eyes glittered. With a sinking heart, he hoped he was wrong about the meaning of her hand's pressure on his arm. In any other woman, he would have recognized the signs, but he could not bring himself to believe this was happening. Not from her.

  “Yes, Miss Marlowe.” To his own ears, his voice sounded strangled. It took all his effort not to throw off her clutching fingers.

  She moved closer until her satin dressing gown brushed his calves. “But you know all that, don't you? Mother tells me that the servants know everything before we do.”

  He remained silent.

  She laughed, as if sensing his discomfort. “Don't worry. You have a right to be in my chamber. After all, I called you here, didn't I?”

  “Yes, Miss.” Now that the first shock was over, he relaxed slightly. Despite her rank, Maeve Marlowe was no different than any other woman, he realized. How many times had he seen that look in their eyes? Such attention was harmless, flattering, even enjoyable, if one wanted to play the game.

  Then reality came crashing down. No. Not harmless. Not in this case.

  She appeared unaware of the stiffening muscles under his sleeve. “Perhaps you suspected why I called you here tonight.” She looked up at him through her thin, pale lashes in what she must have thought was a seductive look. “Surely I do not have to spell it out.”

  “Yes, Miss. The paintings.” Despite her unexpectedly strong grip, he knew could easily pull away, be through the door in an instant. But a lifetime of knowing his place stood in his way: a servant must not leave without being dismissed. Defying a command from a superior went against everything that had been ingrained in him since birth, even if he hadn't run the risk of being sacked if he refused to obey. Moreover, in these hard times he would never find employment without a reference. He might literally starve, as so many did outside those towering hedges.

  She ignored his response. “My fiancé is fifty years old.” She moved closer. He could feel her hot breath on his chest. “In the prime of life, my father assures me. He says I am fortunate.”

  “Yes, Miss.” It growing difficult to breathe, and it took all his effort not to take a step back. He glanced longingly at the door that led to freedom.

  “Well, I'm not fortunate!” Suddenly her cheeks flushed, and her voice hardened. “I had no choice in the matter. No choice whatsoever. Why, I have no more freedom to decide my own future than a … than an African slave!”

  Her hand clenched, and to his surprise, he felt pity for her. It was common for a lady of her class to have a marriage arranged without consulting her wishes. It must be hard for a passionate young woman to be tied to an older man she did not care for, he thought, looking at her tear-filled eyes and heaving bosom. She must feel nearly as powerless as....

  As he did.

  Tom's senses snapped into place, and a sudden rage rushed through his veins. It was a feeling that he had never experienced before, a silent, inner rebellion as impossible to hold back as a tidal wave. He looked down at her with disgust. Maeve Marlowe thought she could command him to do something he found repugnant, not caring about his feelings about the matter, never even considering that he might refuse. Why shouldn't she? She, and those like her, dominated everything he did, from when he rose in the morning, to what he wore, to how he filled every hour of the day until he went to sleep—and even then, they could call him from his slumber on a whim.

  The rush of resentment was raw, overwhelming, causing him to tremble. For a moment, he had to clench his fists to prevent himself from shoving her aside.

  But she did not sense the change in him. Instead, she pressed closer, her body touching his. “I shall be faithful to him after we are wed, of course,” she murmured. “But I deserve one hour of pleasure before then. Is that too much to ask?”

  Any trace of sympathy vanished as he realized that her words were not addressed not to him, but to herself. His wishes, his desires were irrelevant, he thought bitterly. To her, to all of her class, he was nothing but an object, a possession. Because of his position, he was powerless to move as she ran her hand up his arm like a trader assessing horseflesh.

  ‘…One hour with the tallest, best-looking man in my father's retinue,” she whispered. “It would be an experience to remember for a lifetime.” Her mouth tightened, and her fingernails dug painfully into his flesh. “Who could deny me that right?”

  Despite his disgust, Tom was sickeningly aware of the precariousness of his position. To incur Maeve Marlowe's displeasure was to risk everything. Yet if anyone heard about this.... If the slightest hint of it came to Blodgett's ears, or, God forbid, to Lord Marlowe's….

  He sneaked another glance at the doorway. If he could find the right words to satisfy her vanity, that would buy him time to make his escape....

  But Miss Marlowe had finished speaking. She raised her face, closed her eyes, and pursed her rouged lips, expecting unquestioning compliance.

  “Never! “ The word exploded out of him, shocking him as much as her. He pushed aside her clinging arms. The unexpected move caused her to stumble backward, toward the bed, and instinctively, she clutched his shoulders to avoid falling. Her weight caught him off balance, and he collapsed heavily on top of her.

  Misinterpreting the action, she giggled and pulled at his waistcoat. Again, her grip was unexpectedly strong. The threads ripped, and he heard the gold buttons ping against the floor.

  Dimly he was aware of a drumming sound in the distance, while he protested like a character in a French farce. “No, Miss Marlowe, I cannot ....We must not ....”

  Her black eyes suddenly narrowed and she slapped him smartly, with such force that his head snapped back. At almost the same time, rough hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him to his feet like a fish on a line.

  “Scoundrel! Rotgut! Knave!” The deep bellow belonged to Lord Marlowe. “How dare you lay your filthy hands on my daughter? I shall see you hang for this!”

  “He attacked me! Take him!” Miss Marlowe cried, and fell limply back on the bed, her eyes fluttering shut.

  Tom risked a glance behind to see who was holding him while Lord Marlowe, purple with rage, brandished his walking stick in his face. It was Campbell, his rugged face a stony mask, his grip like iron.

  “Is this the reward I get for taking a got-wobbled under-gardener into my household?” Lord Marlowe screamed. “I vow I shall see him swing from a gibbet before the week's out! Hold him well, Campbell!”

  Before Tom could utter a word, the gold-handled stick crashed down, and the lights in the room went out.

  Chapter Six

  Abigail privately thought that Maeve Marlowe's wedding could not be said to have been a success. Jonathan, seeming startled out of his usual state of sleepy good-humor, dropped his humorous pretense at wooing her and excused himself several times to go to his sister's side. Once, when passing down the hallway that led past Maeve's room, Abigail thought she heard muffled weeping.

  On the day of the happy event, the bride seemed wan and distracted, and when the vicar asked her for her vows, she had to be prodded before responding. Even then, she looked up and said, blankly, “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

  The father of the bride looked tense as well. Lord Marlowe's puffy face was an unnatural, raw-beef shade of red, and his gold-handled cane sported a fresh dent in it. The festivities that followed seemed forced, and when the couple left abruptly for their new home in the West Indies, Abigail had hardly a chance to wish them farewell.

  Miles Woodbury decided to cut short their visit, and their hosts did not press them to stay. On the bright side, Abigail thought as Lady Marlowe's lady's maid arranged her hair on their
last morning at Blackgrave Manor, she had come to a decision not to marry dour, practical Benjamin Pinckney. Who cared if he published one of the best newspapers in Boston?

  She winced as the maid pulled a lock of hair a tad too vigorously. Startled out of her reverie, she looked with surprise into the dressing table mirror. The maid was a beauty, possibly the prettiest girl she had ever seen: porcelain-skinned, with curls of golden hair escaping from under her mobcap, and slender, agile fingers that transformed Abigail's unruly locks into a coiffure that would satisfy even a noblewoman. Her scalp ached from the pulling, but peering into the mirror, she had to admit the result was worth it.

  “Well done, Jenny,” she said and swiveled to smile at the girl. “You've a gift.”

  “Thank you, Miss.” The girl traced a short curtsy. Like everything the maid did, the movement was graceful and becoming, but there was no note of kindness or warmth in her tone. “Have I leave to be dismissed, Miss?”

  “Of course,” Abigail said promptly. “I could have done my hair myself, you know. If Lady Marlowe hadn't insisted—” A thought occurred to her and she twisted in her seat to look at the maid again. “If you do not mind, Jenny, may I ask a question before you go?”

  “Yes, Miss?” The girl folded her hands in front of her neat white apron, where they lay as still as resting birds.

  “Is it my imagination, Jenny, or has something been amiss these past few days?”

  The girl's eyes widened fractionally. “Whatever can you mean, Miss?”

  Abigail wasn't sure herself. She waved a hand vaguely. “Ever since the night of the rehearsal dinner, it seems that everyone has been on edge.”

  “There was some trouble below stairs, Ma'am. I believe a servant has been sacked.”

  “Not that footman who dropped the fish, I hope?” Abigail felt distressed. She had caught a glimpse of the accident, from the corner of her eye. She had almost forgotten the event. It had been over so quickly, with such a minimum of fuss, that she had hoped, for the footman’s sake, that she was the only one who had noticed.

  Jenny shrugged. “I'm sorry, Ma'am. That's all I know.”

  Abigail considered talking to Lady Marlowe about the matter. It hadn't been the footman's fault, for Anatole had thrown his arm out in one of those grand gestures he had picked up from his Creole friends and knocked the platter clean out of the fellow’s grasp. But what if she only made matters worse? Lady Marlowe would not appreciate her guest interfering with the workings of her household.

  And yet Abigail hated injustice. She gave Jenny a distracted nod. “Thank you, Jenny. I shall not need your services again.”

  “Yes, Miss.” The girl curtsied again and withdrew.

  Taking a last look at her transfigured self in the mirror, Abigail went downstairs. Jonathan had promised to take her riding her last day at Blackgrave Manor, and the weather boded to be fair. As she stepped into the stirrup with the aid of a stable boy, she wondered once again what had become of the footman who had dropped the fish.

  Then Jonathan rode up on his enormous bay and, laughing, shouted, “I shall race you to the lake.” He switched his horse, and was gone.

  When she caught up with him, laughing, her hair torn by the wind from the elaborate hairdo that Jenny had constructed so painfully, she had already forgotten the servant's misfortune.

  Chapter Seven

  A splitting pain in Tom's head awoke him. For a moment he lay gazing up at an unfamiliar low wooden ceiling that swayed from side to side, wondering where he was. Then gradually he realized he could not move his arms. They appeared to have been secured behind him with some type of cording. A sudden sickening lurch and a clicking of hooves against cobblestones told him he was in some sort of conveyance. An enclosed wagon.

  He thought at first he was dreaming. Soon Campbell would be shaking him out of bed to light the fires. Then he remembered the gold-handled cane striking his temple, and, less clearly, the thrashing that had followed by several of the other footmen. His body throbbed from head to foot, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

  The wagon hit a bump, causing his head to bang against the floor, redoubling the pain. He cursed as the memories returned. There was no mystery about his destination, he realized. He was being transported to gaol, and soon, after a hasty trial, he'd be led to the gallows, as Lord Marlowe had vowed.

  Tom did not consider for a moment the possibility that a kindly judge would find him innocent. No one would take the word of a mere servant against that of a nobleman, or a nobleman's daughter.

  He wondered who had betrayed him. Some unknown enemy among the servants, perhaps, who had made a lucky guess as to why he had been called to Maeve's bedroom, hoped to use it against him? If so, the plan had paid off handsomely.

  Bitterly, he remembered Lemley's warning to stay away from the Marlowes. He had not heeded it, and now he was paying the consequences.

  Looking down, he saw he had been stripped of his satin jacket and that he had lost his wig in the beating. His head throbbed, his bones ached, and a few teeth felt loose. Lost in dark thoughts, he barely noticed the wagon lurch to a stop until a stocky constable threw open the doors.

  “Awake, then, are ye?” The policeman bundled him out and a doorway that led into dark corridor lined with cells. A foul odor turned his stomach.

  Fitting a key in the last iron-barred door, the constable placed a beefy palm on Tom's back and shoved, hard. “Maybe you'll manage to stay out of trouble 'ere, eh?” He laughed as the door clanged shut.

  With his hands tied behind his back, Tom was unable to break his fall. His cheek hit the flagstone floor, unleashing a burst of raucous laughter from the dark recesses of the cell.

  The policeman's key rattled noisily in the metal door, and footsteps echoed back down the hallway.

  “God love me if it ain't one of the bloody 'ouse of Lords! Look at them fancy rags!” A boot tested Tom's newly bruised ribs. He had been about to push himself to his feet. Now he decided it would be prudent to remain where he was: prone on a hard, cold floor that reeked of urine.

  “Knee breeches, by all that's holy!” said another voice. Rough hands pulled at his boots. “An' fine new Hessians. Look at that shiny leather! Do you suppose they'd fit me, Jake?”

  “Leave them be, fools,” said a third voice. It was smoother than the others, and more thoughtful. “Those boots will do neither of you good where you're going. Besides—” a slight pause—”the fellow might prove useful to us.”

  “Useful?”

  “’E's dressed like a gentleman, isn't he? Who knows but what ’e might have powerful friends?”

  “If 'e 'ad powerful friends, 'e'd hardly be here, would 'e?” sneered the first voice.

  'Oh, he'll prove useful enough. He'll balance the gibbet,” said the second at the same time, and the laughter burst out again.

  But the tugging stopped, and Tom felt it safe to open an eye. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he saw two ruffians looking down at him, greasy, untrimmed hair falling across their faces.

  A third man sat on a ledge jutting out from a wall. He was older than the others, and his clothes appeared of better cut. His thinning brown hair was secured by a limp ribbon, while artificially enlarged eyes studied him through thick wire-rimmed spectacles. The shrewd intensity of the gaze made Tom suddenly self-conscious.

  He struggled to his knees, a difficult feat with his arms tied behind his back. The constable had failed to release the bonds, and by now he had lost nearly all sensation in his wrists.

  “So—” The middle-aged man removed his spectacles and began polishing them on the front of his shirt. “What are you here for, mate? You seem a cut above the usual lot who pass within these walls.”

  Tom turned his head away. He had no desire to consort with criminals, even had he wished to relate the events that had brought him here. There was no way to tell the story without looking a fool, even to himself. How easily he had played into Miss Marlowe's scheme! he thought bitterly. If only he ha
d defied her, or stormed from the room, as a real man would have done. But he had proven himself to be what Miss Maeve expected: a trained monkey, good only to do others’ bidding.

  Then the flame of rebellion flared again in his belly. Never again. Never again would he let another man or woman dictate his actions, he swore, as rage filled every vein of his sore, aching body, giving him strength. If by some miracle he were freed from prison, never again would he blindly obey anyone. Never. Even if his last act was to defy the hangman, he would fight until breath left his body!

  “'Ain't the talkative type, it appears,” said the first man, a broad-shouldered thug with a thatch of hair as thick as an otter's pelt. “No matter, I 'eard the guards talking through the door before the wagon arrived. This fellow's no gentleman, e's a servant. 'Ad an eye for his master's daughter, they said.” He laughed and spat, adding some details as vulgar as they were false.

  “Is that so?” the older man said mildly. He settled his glasses onto the bridge of his hooked nose and studied the newcomer again with interest.

  Ignoring them, Tom crawled to the nearest corner and propped himself against the wall. The cool stone felt good against his aching back, although the reference to the gibbet made him feel more wretched than ever, reminding him of his hopeless position.

  His comrades at the manor would never know the truth, he thought. Blodgett would never allow the real story to come out. Miss Marlowe would be kept out of any version of the tale. No doubt they would accuse him of stealing silver, or some other petty crime: a few spoons missing from the butler's pantry would answer any questions about his disappearance. After a few days of speculation, Tom would be forgotten, just like the long-departed Jenkins had been forgotten, and life at Blackrock Manor would continue as usual.

  Of course, Lemley would miss him. And maybe …. Jenny's face swam into view, her soft lips parted in a warm smile. His gut twisted with longing. Surely she would miss him. She would wonder what had happened. Perhaps his absence would cause her to realize the depth of her feelings for him.