The Gardener

by Catherine McGreevy

  “But how—?”

  “Shhh.” Lemley glanced at the sky, which had already lightened to metal gray, and cocked an ear to hear the men's shouts and the howling of the dogs. “Of course ye cannot cross the grounds yerself. They'd catch you, sure enough.”

  “Then…?”

  Lemley reached a decision. “Into this wagon with ye. Make haste! I shall cover ye with this burlap. No, no, do not argue. They will not expect an old gardener like me to be tearing about with the rest of the young folks. What would less interestin’ than Lemley goin' about 'is daily duties?”

  While Lemley harnessed the donkey to the cart with fumbling fingers, Tom doubted the plan would work. The wagon was small and rickety; its odor suggested its last job was transporting cow manure. But the old gardener was waiting impatiently, and Tom obeyed, although he had to bend himself into knots to fit inside. If he could have thought of another plan, he would have snatched at it.

  He made one last half-hearted protest. “Are you sure this will work?”

  “Shhh.” The heavy cloth landed atop Tom, sending up a cloud of dust and blotting out the gray daylight. He made himself as small as he could, hoping part of his anatomy was sticking out from under the filthy cloth. The donkey, grunting, began to pull, and the wagon shook and trembled. They trundled across the barn floor's wooden planks and, with another jolt, over uneven earth.

  It was hard to breathe under the stifling cloth and Tom struggled not to sneeze. The wagon stopped with increasing frequency, and he heard Lemley curse the donkey to hurry. Instead of speeding up, however, their pace grew slower. A group of running footsteps came near, and Tom stiffened under his covering.

  “Have you seen him, Hencock?” He recognized Darby's excitable voice.

  “No,” Hencock answered. “But they've found footprints leading from the 'ouse.”

  “Look over there!" Darby shouted. "Looks like the dogs've scented something in the stables!”

  “Aye, perhaps he spent the night there. Look, the beasts've gone nigh mad. But I wager he's gone by now....”

  “Sound the alarm, fellows, if you see any sign of him. Lord Marlowe has offered ten guineas to anyone who ….”

  A third voice broke through, louder and more belligerent than the rest. Tom recognized it as belonging to Bristlebridge, a burly man with enormous side-whiskers and a penchant for fist-fights and gambling. “Say, there, old man! What are ye doing with that wagon? Why aren't ye out searching with the rest o' us?”

  Under the burlap, Tom's heart stopped. But the wagon continued its slow unsteady movement.

  “The day's getting on, and I have me work to do.” Lemley's gruff voice sounded sullen. “I can't go about 'arum skarum like you young folks, who've got naught better to fill your time. I shall leave the ten-guinea reward to the likes of ye. What use 'ave I for money at my age anyway?”

  Boisterous laughter followed, along with some off-color jokes. But apparently the groundskeeper had let Lemley pass, for the wagon continued along its slow, bumpy way.

  Tom did not know how much later it was when it came to a rest for a final time. He did not like the sound of Lemley's breathing. It had grown raspy, interrupted by hacking coughs. Then without warning the cover lifted, and he blinked, blinded by brilliant sunlight. The morning clouds had dissipated.

  Lemley bent over, his face revealing his elfin, toothless smile. “Well, Tom, we've done it. We are on the other side of the lake. If they track us 'ere, I shall believe in magic.”

  With difficulty, Tom unfolded himself. Every joint was sore, every inch as bruised as a tenderized steak. He looked around, taking his bearings. Bushes and trees screened them. Ahead stretched the road to London, rising and falling over undulating hills until it disappeared in the distance.

  He cleared his throat, overcome with emotion. “Lem—”

  “Save your breath for walking. If I do not return to the stables soon, they'll have plenty more questions, and this time me answers will not satisfy them.” Lemley took the battered straw hat off his bald head and placed it on Tom. “'Ye’ll stand out less wearin’ this. Go on, lad. Be on your way.”

  Tom pulled out the small bag Rosie had given him, and tried to press it into the gardener's hand. “At least take this. It's the least I can do to repay you.”

  “Silly lad. Did you not hear me earlier? What use have I for money?” Lemley's wizened face looked gentle. “Whereas it may be of use to you. Be off with ye, Tom! But wherever you go, know that there is one who wishes ye well.” He whistled to the donkey.

  As the wagon trundled in the direction from which it had come, Lemley added over his shoulder, “Get rid of that burlap. it is bound to have yer smell on it.”

  Tom watched until Lemley was nearly out of sight. Then, he found a heavy rock, knotted the burlap around it, and threw it in the lake. It sank without a trace. He turned his back on Blackgrave Manor and began the long journey back to London, too depressed to wonder what the future would bring.

  * * *

  As he walked, Tom revived enough to congratulate himself on his escape. He had done it! He had not only evaded the gallows, but given Lord Marlowe the slip. But as his mood rose, the memory of how Jenny had humiliated him tempered it again. He winced, as Rosie's words returned to him: “Next time do not be so quick to give yourself away to a pretty face.” No fear of that! he thought savagely. Vain, selfish bits of muslin, that's all women were—good for an hour's dalliance, nothing more.

  He tried not to remember the disaster had been largely his own fault. After all, Jenny had discouraged him—the advances had all been on his side. But then, he hadn’t imagined her response when he had kissed her. Or had he?

  What a fool he had been! Tom thought with disgust, walking faster. How trusting, how stupid! He now felt vastly older and more cynical than the eager youth who, only hours before, had risked his life merely to see the girl again.

  A wagon approached from behind, and he glanced nervously over his shoulder, expecting to hear a shout or to feel a rough hand grip the back of his shirt. But the wagon rumbled by. Nevertheless, his pace quickened even more. Lord Marlowe's men would be after him soon, he had no doubt of it. How long until they tracked him down?

  Chapter Nine

  During the long, dusty trek back to London, Tom tried to put the events of the past month behind him. It took all his concentration to put one foot in front of the other, to find a place to rest under a hedgerow at night. Lack of sleep, hunger, and exhaustion induced a dream-like state, and eventually all he was aware of was the deeply rutted road beneath his feet and his own rhythmic breathing. He had almost stopped jumping every time he heard the clatter of horses coming up behind him. Almost.

  Gradually Tom began to wonder about his future. Perhaps there was something in store for him, he thought hopefully. No longer was he the awkward, ignorant lout with dirty hands that Blodgett had pulled from the garden. He could read a little. He was comfortable around fine things: good wines, elegantly prepared food, the best works of art. He’d heard the conversation of the highest government officials and clergy as they relaxed the dinner table, and while, admittedly, much of it had gone over his head, some had percolated into his understanding.

  In the meantime, his hands had grown soft, his formerly tanned skin was pale. Yet with Lord Marlowe his sworn enemy and with no references, it was impossible that he should find employment at anything he was now suited for.

  To add to his misery it began to rain. The dust which until now had only been bothersome now turned to mud, making progress difficult. Passing wagons sloshed filthy water over his legs, saturating his clothing and ruining his boots.

  As traffic increased and the increasing density of the habitations told him he was approaching his destination, Tom realized he could no longer continue walking aimlessly. He needed a plan.

  Then he remembered Isaac had said where he would go, if by some miracle he were freed. What was the name of the ale house? The Blue something. The Blue Hound? The Blue
Stag? The Blue Boar. That was it!

  It seemed as good a destination as any. There, he could eat, sleep, make plans. Thanks to Rosie's generosity, he had money in his pocket. At the Blue Boar, it would be unlikely anyone would ask unwelcome questions or make demands of him. He'd be one more anonymous traveler; that was all.

  Tom had to ask directions several times and still ended up hopelessly lost. The first night in London, he ended up sleeping in a doorway and woke with a rat sniffing at his face. He swept it away violently, crying out with revulsion.

  He wandered the maze-like streets until after nightfall, when he finally spotted a squat stone building with a wooden, blue-painted pig-shaped sign. A slatternly woman leaned against a lamppost, studying him with interest as he passed. He turned away from her with disgust, and picked his way through trash and filth as he crossed the street.

  Women, he scowled, returning to the theme that had haunted him since leaving Blackgrave Manor. Traitorous, scheming, untrustworthy wretches! If not for their wiles, he'd be safe and comfortable, with a full belly, fine clothes, and the prospect of advancement in the Marlowe's household.

  His mind squirmed uncomfortably away from his own role in his downfall.

  Golden light blazed through the inn's mullioned windows, and boisterous laughter echoed into the nearly deserted street. At the sound, Tom's steps slowed. He wanted no part of high spirits or levity. But he had no choice. He remembered the rat that had awoken him in the gutter, and, reeling from hunger and exhaustion, he pushed open the heavy door.

  Heat and noise almost knocked him off his feet. While he stood blinking, trying to gather his bearings, a heavy hand clapped his shoulder, making him jump.

  “Well, if it isn't Tom West himself! So you made it, my lad”

  It took a moment to recognize the clean, freshly shaven man grinning at him from behind owlish spectacles. His former cellmate had bathed, trimmed his hair, and donned a set of respectable clothes. A gold watch dangled from an expensive-looking fob. Isaac Harris looked like a prosperous shop-owner, not a pickpocket who had narrowly missed hanging.

  The sharp-cornered grin spread. “Aye, it is me. Life's been good to me these past few days. Unfortunately I cannot say the same of you. You look like the very devil, my handsome lad, and you smell it, too.”

  Tom looked down at his foul rags. He longed for a hot bath almost more than for food. “At least I'm alive," he said grudgingly. "Thanks to you.”

  Isaac chucked. “'Twas as easy to cut two sets of bonds as one, and you provided a welcome distraction for my pursuers.” He turned his head and bellowed. “Bertha! A thick steak for my friend here, and two full tankards.”

  A sallow-faced crone appeared, accompanied by a buxom serving wench, who looked curiously at Tom.

  “Is this your young friend, then?” the old woman inquired. “The one ye told us of?” She shoved the wench in the direction of the kitchen. “Do not stand and stare, girl. Be on your way, ye can try your charms on the pretty lad when ye come back with the ale.”

  Tom could not take his eyes off the old woman, whose hideously mottled face looked familiar for some reason.

  Isaac chuckled. “Yes, this is the charming lady who passed me the knife on the way to the gallows. She also happens to be the proprietress of this inn. Always willing to lend me a room even when I'm a few bob short. She knows I shall be good for it eventually, eh, love?” He chucked her under the chin, and she slapped his hand away without rancor.

  “But how—?” Tom began, bewildered.

  "I had an accomplice smuggle a message to Bertha, who slipped a bribe to the judge to delay our sentencing. Unfortunately it worked too late to save our friends Jake and Marty. You'd best remember that favor, my young friend, lest you be guilty of the sin of ingratitude. A cannier and more loyal wench never existed—save perhaps her lovely daughter, Flo, whom you just met.”

  The old woman cuffed Isaac on the ear. “Be off with ye, ye gullion. I'd have let ye hang if 'twasn't for the two guineas ye'd promised me.” She hustled away to serve a table.

  Flora soon returned and placed in front of Tom a trencher that contained an enormous, steaming slab of beef, and a mass of boiled potatoes alongside, shiny with butter. Tom couldn't help catching a glimpse of her ample bosom as she bent over. She grinned at him and wriggled a little. “Is that enough for you then, dearie? There's plenty more to be had.” She rested a hand on one plump hip, batting her eyelashes.

  Isaac gave her a smart pat on the rear. “Be off with you, Flora. This one's an honest gen'lmun. He's not for the likes of you.”

  “How could I tell, seein' as he's with you?” she retorted. She gave Tom a broad wink before she sashayed off to serve another customer. Tom felt a stirring in spite of himself, before anger and resentment surged back. He wanted no part of it. Instead of looking after her, he reached for his plate. He had other appetites to fill.

  Between mouthsful, Tom briefly recounted his adventures, while Isaac nodded, his eyes interested behind his spectacles. “So—you bearded the lion in his den a second time?" he muttered, scratching his chin. "I refer to Lord Marlowe, of course. And all for the love of a lass! From your downcast looks, I needn't ask how the tender reunion transpired. But here you are, alive and for the moment still free. What are your plans hence?”

  Tom scowled, rubbing his fingers over the pits and deep scratches in the ancient table's surface. “I have no plans.”

  “None?”

  He shrugged. “I have nowhere to go—and no one who will take me in. Lord Marlowe will pursue me anywhere I go. The north of England may be safest for me, I suppose. Or Scotland.”

  Isaac nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, you cannot stay long around here. A man that rich and powerful is sure to have spies everywhere. 'Twas bad luck on your part, making an enemy of a Lord. I'd have counseled against it, if you'd troubled to ask me.” He took a large draught of ale and licked his lips with satisfaction. “Hmmm. Scotland, eh? Happens I have business in that direction. You're welcome to join me, if you like.”

  “What sort of business?” Tom asked suspiciously. Isaac waggled his fingers. Tom shook his head. He had no desire to run further afoul of the law.

  “Are you sure? You'd be a fine partner, and the job is profitable. All you'd have to do is distract the ladies while I make off with their purses. A pleasant task, and you'd be a sight better at it than Marty and Jake, the poor saps. One look at them and the ladies howled for a constable. No? Ah well, we all have our weaknesses. An unbecoming honesty appears to be yours. Perhaps, then, as a final gesture of gratitude, you would be so good as to familiarize me with the layout of Lord Marlowe's house? If a gen'lmun ever deserved to be parted from his goods, I'd say he was the man. It'd be fine payback for you as well.”

  Tom's features cracked into a smile, though his facial muscles felt stiff and reluctant. “Maybe I shall, at that.”

  “I'd invite you to join me in a farewell tour of the household, purely as a gesture of good will. But if you're still sure a life of crime doesn't appeal to you ....” Isaac leaned forward. “I have a proposition that might suit you better.”

  “A proposition?” Tom narrowed his eyes. Why was Isaac so willing to help? The other man seemed the type to do nothing that did not benefit himself.

  The cutpurse seemed to read his mind. “You may be wondering what's in it for me. The answer is I have taken to you. You're good company, and I watched you face death like a gentleman. Besides,” he smiled, “you've given me an idea. If well executed, it will set me up in style for a long time.”

  Before he could reveal his idea, Flora returned, bearing another platter spilling over with food. "More ale?" she asked, and plunked down full tankards without waiting for their response. She winked at Tom and walked away, hips swaying.

  Isaac watched her leave. “Hmm. That puts me in mind of some more unrequested advice, my young friend. That's something to watch for if you plan to stay out of trouble.”

  “Who? Flora?” Tom attacked his
steak with fork and knife.

  “Women. That's what got you gaoled in the first place, isn't it?”

  Tom chewed vigorously. All he cared about was filling his belly. “I told you," he said impatiently. "'Twasn't my fault. It was Miss Marlowe who—”

  “That's what I said. Women.” Isaac paused. “Cats like catnip, bears like honey, and it appears women like you. The attraction certainly is not based on money, or rank, or whatever other qualities usually draw a lass to a fellow. I do not see the magic, but I'd wager Flora could tell you. She knows full well you haven't a penny to your name and that there's a price on your head, and yet ....”

  Tom felt his face grow hot again. He took another huge bite of roast beef.

  Isaac wasn't finished. “Whatever it is, it is going to get you into trouble again, lad. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” Tom mumbled through his food. “More or less.”

  “Nineteen.” Isaac's arched eyebrows glided above his mocking smile. “You are a mere pup, aren't you?” He leaned forward. “Then you'd do well to listen to my advice, young Tom. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.”

  Tom's cheeks bulged as he chewed. He would never have eaten this way at the manor, where Blodgett always reminded the staff at table, “Small pieces, chew thoroughly, never never with your mouth open. A servant's table manners reflect on his master!” But at least with his mouth crammed full of food, Tom did not have to respond.

  “Mind you, I'm not against an occasional piece of muslin,” Isaac went on with a gleam in his bespectacled eye. “But you'd best watch yourself, my lad. You might not be so lucky next time.”

  Lucky? As Tom devoured the last bite and scraped his plate with a crust, however, he found Isaac's words echoed in his mind with the ring of truth. Women were the source of all his problems. Jenny had proved faithless and shallow, even if his own poor judgment was partly to blame. Miss Maeve Marlowe had been even more treacherous. Only Rosie had shown herself loyal, and he did not even think of her as a woman.