The Gardener

by Catherine McGreevy

  “Well, since you ask,” she said dryly in a voice with a slightly odd accent, “I do not seem to be able to get out of this. Could you lend me a hand?”

  He looked at her curiously. An American, from the way she spoke. Now that he thought of it, her face looked familiar. The chestnut hair was the final clue. It hardly seemed possible, but this must be the girl who had come to Blackgrave Manor with her father to attend Maeve Marlowe's wedding!

  Tom searched his memory for the name and found it. Miss Abigail Woodbury. Lord Corbus's outspoken cousin.

  A prickle between his shoulders reminded him he should be fleeing, but he could not bring himself to leave her helplessly caught in the coiled ropes. Automatically he reached down and pulled her easily to her feet. The expression in her wide gray eyes was speculative as they looked up at him. At least, he thought, she did not appear to recognize him.

  “What's wrong?” she asked bluntly, as she brushed off her skirts and patted her hair back into order. “Why in such a hurry? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

  Her forthrightness surprised him into honesty. “As a matter of fact, yes. Some men—” He paused to search behind her again. The detectives had disappeared, perhaps behind one of the buildings, although he had no doubt they were still searching for him. He had learned by now they were not the sort to give up. "Some men are, er, attempting to capture me.”

  Her gray eyes lit with interest. “Why? Have you done something terribly wrong?”

  Then he spotted them. The two men in greatcoats were weaving their way directly toward him, picking their way over boxes and debris. In a few moments, they would be upon them. Escape was now impossible, he realized. There was only one chance. It was a wild idea, but ….

  Tom turned back to Abigail, searching her eyes deeply in the way that had succeeded with many a maid in Lord Marlowe's household. “They think I have done something very wrong, Miss, but I swear, I'm innocent.”

  She frowned. “But if—”

  “Please believe me! Do not ask the crime I am supposed to have done. It does not matter, as it is all a lie, a story made up by an enemy. I beg you, Miss, help me. Tell them I am in your employ. Tell them ....”

  The men were upon them. The short one locked his pale eyes onto Tom like a lion who has spotted his prey. “You, there!" he barked. "You are under arrest. Come with us.”

  Tom faced them head-on, putting on his best innocent look. “Who are you addressing, sir? Me?"

  The eyes narrowed. “Yes, you! Tom West, former footman at Blackgrave Manor! I have two warrants for your arrest: one on a charge of unlawfully escaping from hanging, and another for assault on a woman.”

  Tom was aware of the girl's sharp intake of breath. Desperately thinking of how to respond, he heard her voice ring out, strong and clear.

  “What nonsense is this? This is my servant, Rufus Smith. He has been in my family's employ for over ten years. My father will vouch for him, gentlemen, if you do not believe me.”

  The shorter man turned his light-colored eyes on her. “Impossible," he said coldly. "We know perfectly well who this man is. We have pursued him all the way from London.”

  Abigail looked over the detective's shoulder and her gray eyes widened. “Father! These men say that our Rufus is someone else. How dare they try to take him from us now, just as our ship is about to leave? What can it mean? Help, Father, help!” She put the back of her hand to her forehead, and her eyes fluttered shut.

  Tom thought uncomfortably that the American's histrionic skills were not all they should be—she would never have made a living on the stage—but just as she fell, a distinguished, white haired gentleman appeared and caught her in his arms. He directed a puzzled look from under shaggy brows at Tom, and then at the two detectives.

  “What is all this?” Although he looked stunned, he gamely faced Tom while holding his apparently swooning daughter. “What is this, er, Rufus? Have you got in some trouble with these gentlemen?”

  “No, Mr. Woodbury,” Tom answered promptly. “It appears they have mixed me up with some other fellow.”

  Mr. Woodbury hid his look of surprise quickly that Tom knew his name. The American turned toward the pursuers, feigning anger. He was a far better actor than his daughter. “Well, what more proof do you need, my good men? How would this fellow know my name if he were not in my employ?”

  “How do we know you are Mr. Woodbury?” sneered the taller one. “That could be a false name, and you may be his accomplice.”

  The American raised his square chin and pulled back his shoulders. “I shall overlook your insult because of your ignorance,” he said coolly. “Here." From his pocket, Mr. Woodbury plucked an official-looking letter complete with a broken wax seal. "Look at this, sir. My letter of introduction, issued by John Adams, the American ambassador to the Court of St. James.”

  He read aloud: “'Please accept with greatest honors and courtesy the bearer of this letter, Mr. Miles Woodbury of Cambridge, guest of the American delegate to the Court of Saint James, recently introduced to His Majesty George III, along with his spinster daughter, Abigail ....’”

  “Let me see that.” The short agent snatched the letter and perused it. Gradually the sneer on his face disappeared, and after a few moments, he handed it back, pockmarked face crestfallen.

  “Does that satisfy you?” Mr. Woodbury inquired calmly, pocketing the letter again. “Now it is your turn to defend yourselves, gentlemen. What evidence have you that this is the man you seek?”

  “He matches exactly the description given by our employer, Lord Marlowe.” The taller man looked uncertain, however. “You can see yourself, he is a big man, by far the tallest man on the wharf.”

  “You would convict a man based only on his height? Is that all the proof you can provide?” Mr. Woodbury adjusted his brass-rimmed spectacles and peered through them sharply. “I have heard much criticism of English injustice on my side of the Atlantic, and unless you can do better than that, I am inclined to believe it is true.”

  “But he ran when he saw us. Does that not prove he is an outlaw?”

  “He ran, I am sure. If his employer had told him to be back before the tide turned so they would not miss their ship's departure, should a servant not run?”

  “Then you swear he is not the man we seek?”

  “My daughter has told you his identity. That should be good enough, unless you mean to insult this young lady's truthfulness as well?”

  The two detectives looked at each other uncomfortably. Abigail moaned slightly and her eyes fluttered open. “Papa ... are the horrible men still harassing our poor Rufus?”

  The short man reluctantly touched the brim of his hat and performed a curt bow. “Very well, then, we shall trouble you no further. My apologies to you all. Good day, sir.” He bowed to Abigail. “Good-afternoon, Miss Woodbury.”

  She nodded with equal cold courtesy, and the men walked away.

  Feeling somewhat dazed, Tom turned toward the American couple, who were studying him with great curiosity. He felt color rise to his cheeks. In spite of his self-consciousness, he bowed with the dignity he had learned while in service at Blackgrave Manor, deeply, from the waist.

  “I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Sir, Madam.” He shuddered as he imagined the cold manacles close painfully around his wrists again. If not for their intervention.... "I assure you, your act of kindness will not be forgotten."

  “Nor should it be. Well, Abigail? Would you care to explain?” Mr. Woodbury turned his sharp gaze on his daughter. “Why have I risked my good reputation to save this stranger?”

  “He said he was innocent of wrongdoing, Papa. I believe him.”

  “On what basis?”

  The young woman's cheeks turned pink. She glanced quickly at Tom, and then down at her hands. “Well, I … ah … I …”

  At Blackgrave Manor, Tom had observed Miss Abigail Woodbury was not often at a loss for speech. She’d been quick enough with tart responses during the rep
artée at Maeve Marlowe's engagement dinner, just as when he had knocked her over a few minutes ago. Why was she stammering now?

  “As God is my witness, sir.” Tom spoke up quickly to save the young lady from further embarrassment. “I swear I have done no wrong.”

  Woodbury surveyed him for a long time. Then the pleasant features relaxed, and to Tom's astonishment, the American held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Tom understood. Reluctantly he grasped the offered hand and shook.

  Never had he shaken hands with a superior before, certainly not one of Lord Marlowe's honored guests and, by now, relative by marriage! In wrinkled, slept-in clothes, smelling of dried cod, Tom knew he could never be mistaken as the distinguished man's equal. Americans were indeed as strange as they were reputed to be!

  He glanced at the American's daughter. She was beaming. His eyes lingered on her face. The chestnut hair, fair skin, and bright-blue eyes were more attractive than he had realized. Surprisingly attractive, in fact.

  Tom realized Mr. Woodbury was still speaking.

  “Luckily for you," Woodbury told Tom, "I have a friend who languished in an English cell for no reason except the ill will of a titled person. It predisposes me to believe you, if on grounds no more solid than those my daughter has presented." He looked Tom intensely in the face. "I only pray you are telling the truth and that you will do good with your new lease on freedom.”

  “I will, sir. God bless you, sir,” Tom said sincerely, with another sideways glance at the girl, who smiled back at him. He blushed and looked quickly away.

  Woodbury eyed the lowering sun, his lower lip protruding thoughtfully. “Our ship sails as soon as the tide turns. I encourage you to disappear before the detectives wonder why we have left our faithful retainer behind on a lonely dock in a foreign land.”

  Tom's eyes widened. “Are you sailing on the Absalom, sir? Then we are fellow passengers. I, too, am traveling to the new world.”

  Woodbury tapped his cane on the dock, nodding. “It appears fate has crossed our paths for purposes of its own. Well, my fortunate lad, I suggest we go aboard and see what the future holds.”

  They parted ways at the top of the gang plank with Tom awkwardly thanking the Woodburys again, before the Americans departed for their private cabin and he climbed down into the cramped, dark steerage.

  There, he searched for his bunk, bending over so as not to bump his head against the low overhead. Duffle bags and trunks buffeted him as sailors loaded the hold and passengers stashed their belongings. Cramped as the steerage was, he vowed not to go above decks. Against all odds, he had made it this far, but he would not lessen his guard until they were at sea.

  Whenever a new passenger came below his eyes peered through the darkness, watching for gray greatcoats and black hats. He spoke to no one and did his best to avoid notice by staying in the narrow square box that was his sleeping space, curling up as small as possible. Tom wished he had the horticulture book Sir Jonathan had given him. Reading it would have passed the time. But there had been no time to recover it during his brief return to Blackgrave Manor. As it was, Tom knew he was lucky to have escaped with only his life and the clothes on his back.

  Tom's efforts to escape notice on board the ship appeared to pay off. None of the passengers in steerage looked at him or spoke to him, except a girl of six or seven with her hair in white-blond plaits, who stared with grave eyes and her finger in her mouth, until her mother impatiently yanked her away, chiding, “Come, come, it's rude to stare.”

  He lay, knees folded to his chest in the narrow, hard bunk, which provided hardly more room than the empty cod barrel, waiting for the ship to sail. Meanwhile, his thoughts returned to the unconventional American girl with her merry blue eyes and bright, chestnut hair. The girl who had so inexplicably saved him. Why had she done it? Tom frowned, puzzled.

  No matter. He must stay out of her way, if possible, while aboard the ship. Abigail Woodbury did not appear to remember the truth about who he was, but if she ever did, the girl might prove dangerous. She was the only link between him and Blackgrave Manor.

  He did his best to smother a pang of regret. All that mattered now was survival.

  * * *

  At last all passengers were on board, and the last of the provisions was stored. The bos'un's hoarse shouts, the increased pitching of the ship, and the freshening of the salt air proved they had disembarked.

  No fear now of capture now, Tom thought with relief as he unfolded himself from his cot to stretch his cramped limbs. Listening to rats scuttle below the deck, Tom wondered what it would be like to finally not have to have to hide anymore. Ever. It would be heaven.

  The thought brought back a remark Mr. Miles Woodbury had made long ago, at that fateful dinner when Tom had dropped the platter of fish, an event that had changed his life forever. In the United States, the American guest had told the others, one man was rated as good as another. A shocking statement!

  Mr. Woodbury had proved it, though, when he shook Tom's hand on the dock at Plymouth—equal to equal, man to man. Tom could not dismiss the incident from his mind.

  Equals? The idea was strange. Dangerous, even. And yet the new concept returned to Tom, over and over, and he couldn't help contemplating it. Never before had Tom considered that he might be the same worth as those who ranked above him. Why not? He was as intelligent as Jonathan Marlowe, and nearly as well educated. Taller, and stronger. All that Tom lacked was money and the advantage of high birth.

  Tom pictured himself striding up to Lord Marlowe, looking squarely in the master's startled eye, and proclaiming, “I am your equal.” It took no imagination to know what would happen next. Marlowe's face would turn purple, the wide-lipped mouth would work with rage. The gold-handled cane would crash down, and Lord Marlowe would call the other footmen to thrash Tom within an inch of his life.

  Just like before.

  Tom's faint smile disappeared, and Miss Maeve Marlowe's hated face swam into view. His gut clenched at the memory of the spoiled young woman's close-set dark-rimmed eyes, the narrow chin, her utter selfishness.

  Mr. Miles Woodbury was right, Tom thought. Birth had nothing to do with one's value as a human being. The truth was, Miss Marlowe was no better than the manor's lowest scullery maid. Lower, even! At least a scullery maid performed the useful act of scrubbing pots. Maeve Marlowe did nothing whatsoever to justify her existence.

  Tom tossed restlessly in his cramped bunk, adjusting to the bothersome thoughts. The little blond girl stared at him, eyes round, finger in her mouth, and Tom turned toward the bulkhead to avoid the child's curious gaze.

  Old Lemley would chide him for his sinful thoughts, Tom knew. The old gardener believed firmly one must accept one's place. Even his dead mother, may she rest in peace, would have considered these new notions wicked. Like everyone else of their class, they accepted the system with no thought of its fairness.

  Tom had been the same. Like them, he had been taught to touch his forelock when the landlord strode by, to bow when the mistress came near. Unquestioningly he'd accepted his low rank as a fact of life, like his unusual height or the color of his eyes.

  That is, until meeting the Woodburies.

  Would things be different in America? Tom wondered hopefully. Would he be treated there like anyone else, low or high?

  Then, with a pang, he remembered that the alluring concepts of freedom, of equality, were only an illusion. Upon arrival in Rhode Island as an indentured servant, Tom would be bound by rules even stricter than those he'd lived under in England. In America, an indentured servant could not leave his master's premises without written permission, nor resign from his position no matter how badly he was treated.

  The only advantage, Tom thought, was that he would no longer face the gallows. And after seven years he would be free.

  Tom felt a slight swelling of hope as he rolled onto his back and gazed at the bunk above him. Seven years! One way or another, the years would pass. And then....
/>   The seed of hope that had been planted inside on the dock at Plymouth stirred inside him again, stronger than before.

  * * *

  Now that Tom could go above deck, he staggered about while gaining his sea legs, staring in wonder at the unfamiliar sight of the ocean surrounding the small ship. Never had he seen such an endless expanse of blue, unbroken by any other color except the white clouds and sails, the brown boards of the ship, and an occasional passing seagull.

  At the stern of the ship, he saw the Woodburys strolling arm in arm. Abigail held a green parasol, and her bright hair shone in the sunlight. He almost went to greet them, remembering their kindness, then checked himself.

  The two Americans were a link to Blackgrave Manor. If either the girl or her father remembered him, they’d feel obligated to notify Lord Marlowe. Despite their kindness, Tom had no doubt that loyalty and family bonds came first. Better not to test the limits of his good fortune. He turned and quickly walked the opposite direction.

  * * *

  A week later the sky grew gunmetal gray, and waves crashed over the gunwales, causing the small vessel to lurch like a crazed horse. At first, Tom bore it better than most of the other suffering passengers and made himself useful by emptying slop buckets, bringing water, and helping the sailors lash down barrels and crates.

  Occasionally he spared a thought for the Woodburys and wondered how they were faring in the storm. Despite the ship's small size, he had succeeded in avoiding them, a task made easier by the fact that they were the captain's guests and spent most of their time with the upper officers. He also deliberately timed his visits on deck when he knew they would not be there.

  Tom deliberately avoided getting to know the other passengers, but as the storm dragged on, he could not help noticing a gray-haired woman moaning in a nearby bunk. She also appeared to be traveling alone.

  Since she had no one to care for her, moved by pity, he began to check on her as he passed by. He brought her drinks of fresh water and put wet rags on her forehead when her face looked flushed and feverish, until one day, when he held a cup of water to her lips, her eyes opened and she rewarded him with him a faint smile.