“As I told you, my father and I are not in a position to hire a servant," she said, "but one of our acquaintances might have a place in their household. Perhaps my father will let you stay while we make inquiries.”
What her father would actually say was a problem she would tackle later. In the meantime, she was overflowing with questions: Who was Tom West? Where had he come from? How did a man in his desperate circumstances speak and act like a nobleman? It was all a mystery. A delightful mystery, and a welcome change from the dull routine of her life.
Might he be the younger son of an English lord, sent away in disgrace by a cruel father? If so, how had he been reduced to dashing about docks pursued by agents or knocking half-starved on the doors of strangers? She couldn't wait to learn the answers, but those would have to wait until a more propitious time.
“You are very generous, Miss.” His lashes were drooping, and she suspected that, if not for a valiant exercise of willpower, he would have laid his head on the table and slept, then and there. From the burrs in his hair, she guessed he had been sleeping in ditches and haystacks the past few days, at least.
By the minute, Abigail was growing more convinced that her visitor must be a gentleman in disguise. Either way, Tom West needed help, and Fate had sent him Abigail's way yet again. Surely that meant something?
She only hoped her father would not be furious when he heard about their uninvited guest. Abigail was experienced at making Papa see things her way, but this would prove trickier than usual. Then she remembered Tom's empty plate. “You're sure you will not have more? Very well, come along. You may stay in our former maid's room until we decide what to do with you.”
As she led him down the hall, she noted he ducked his head to avoid brushing the ceiling. He looked around the small room at the cot with its clean, turned-back patchwork quilt and at the water basin on the chest, and turned toward her with a smile that made her heart flutter. “Thank you, Miss Woodbury.”
She recognized it for what it was: a gracious dismissal. Obediently, she left, closing the door behind her. She had not taken three steps down the hall before she heard the bedsprings creak loudly, followed by a soft snore.
* * *
“What?” Miles Woodbury set down his drinking glass so hard that the liquid slopped onto the table. His chin bristled and his usually clear eyes turned hard as blue-green marbles under the bushy eyebrows.
Abigail calmly buttered her roll, trying to maintain a casual air. “It would only be for a few days, Papa, until he finds employment. He's an Englishman, a bit down on his luck, but I am sure he is perfectly trustworthy.” She had decided not to mention they had met before. Under the circumstances, the fact would not be in Tom's favor.
Her father’s eyebrows lowered threateningly. “How can you be certain?”
“Why, he is very polite, Papa! His manners are impeccable.”
“And, of course, that tells everything about a man.” Snorting, he pushed aside his plate and steepled his fingers, his gaze intensifying. “Well, what is the rogue's name? And what references does he have?”
“Mrs. Parker sent him here." Abigail thought of the ruined wad of paper Tom had handed her, wishing it were legible so she could hand it to her father.
“Mrs. Parker? Whoever she might be, she certainly had nerve to impose a stranger on us this way. Who the devil is she?”
Abigail finished her roll and took a sip of tea. “Why, we are distant relations. She’s the mother of the wife of one of your cousins, the lawyer Richard Merkel of Providence. Do you not recall? We met on the ship when we sailed back from England. Tom West was her traveling companion. She spoke very highly of him.”
“Did she, now? What else do you know about him besides what that woman, relation or not, may have told you?"
“Well ... er … shouldn't that be enough?” She decided once more against reminding her father of the pursuit on the Plymouth dock.
Her father threw down his fork. “It most certainly is not enough. A strange man is quartered under my roof, and you did not think to ask his background?”
She met his eyes. “You do not understand, Father! He was half-dead from exhaustion and hunger. I could hardly interrogate him before he'd had a chance to eat and rest.”
“And so you let a vagabond into our house with no questions asked.” A slow wave of red rolled up her father's face. “How do you know he is not an escaped criminal or worse? This reminds me of another foolish event in which you embroiled me before our departure from in England, which it shames me to recall I assisted you. Really, Abigail! I shall send the blackguard packing first thing in the morning.”
“Very well, Papa.”
She lowered her eyes again, but inside she exulted. Most men would have rousted the stranger and ordered him out of the house then and there, but in spite of his bluster, her father would not even interrupt the newcomer's sleep. That gave her the rest of the evening to change his mind—and Miles Woodbury was too soft hearted, too opposed to injustice, to refuse to help a man who so obviously needed it. At least, once he had met him.
Abigail's thoughts returned to the tall stranger. It was a pity they could not afford to hire this Tom West of whom Mrs. Parker thought so highly. But at least they could find a place for him until he found employment elsewhere, whether it took a few days or weeks. In the meantime, he could earn his keep by doing odd jobs. There was plenty to do around the house. The structure was showing signs of neglect. Maybe when he recovered his strength, he could prove useful.
If she had ulterior motives, she certainly did not admit them to herself.
* * *
Abigail's assault on her father’s resolve continued after supper, as she sat in her rocking chair with the fire casting a warm, flickering light throughout the room. The dog lay on the hearth, head on its front paws, snoring. Mr. Woodbury smoked his pipe while Abigail read aloud from the New Testament, carefully selecting passages such as “inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, my brethren,” and “many have sheltered angels, unaware.” When she finished reading, she left the Bible open on her lap.
“It is disgraceful, how the house is falling apart,” she commented casually. “The roof needs repairs, and I nearly broke my ankle on the broken flagstone in the front yesterday. Do you remember how last week you said you ought to hire someone to fix it?”
“Abigail, I warn you!” Her father paused in his attempts to tamp more tobacco into his pipe to give her a glowering look.
Unperturbed, she rose and kissed his cheek, then perched on the arm of his chair. “Besides, it is dangerous, the two of us living alone," she went on. "Having another person in the house would make us safer. Why, Sarah Osgood told me the Runyans had a break-in just a few weeks ago.”
Relighting the pipe, her father put it back in his mouth and spoke around the stem. “Why does it matter so much that we take in this fellow? He's nothing but a common mendicant. We turn away three or four of them every month.”
“But Papa, there's something different about this one.”
She remembered again how she had felt when she brought Cromwell home after finding him wounded in a ditch: a warm feeling in her heart, sense of compassion, a desire to nurture.... This felt the same. Well, not exactly the same. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, she was influenced by that streak of romanticism which couldn't help being touched by the stranger's elegant manners, the pathos of his appearance, and the chiseled features hiding under the grime. She could hardly wait to see him after a good scrubbing and in a set of clean clothes.
She glanced up guiltily, but her father appeared unaware of her thoughts.
“All right, I suppose I shall speak to the rogue,” he grumbled. “I'll render my decision in the morning.” His bushy brows came down again, a barometer of his feelings. “But if I perceive any reason to suspect his intentions…. “
“Thank you, Papa!” She embraced him as elation swept over her.
* * *
Abigail had j
ust finished cooking breakfast when the door to the kitchen creaked open. She turned to see Tom West standing in the doorway. He looked even taller than she remembered, hair slicked back and darkened with water. The stubble was gone, and his skin glowed with cleanliness. He had obviously found the pitcher of water and razor she had brought in while he was sleeping, and made good use of them. With the dirt gone, he was the image of what she had imagined last night, and more.
She dragged her eyes back to the stove, feeling her cheeks grow hot.
“Good morning, Miss.” His formal bow showed the old mix of pride and humility, as if overly cognizant of her status as the mistress of the household. Certainly Grace had never spoken like that. The serving girl had always teased and scolded Abigail as if she were an older sister, while Tom West treated her as if she were a lady of the manor.
The thought brought back memories of the cool, elegant Lady Marlowe, and instinctively she stood straighter and ran a hand over her hair to tuck back stray strands of auburn hair.
“Good morning.” She filled a plate with food and brought it to him. “Did you sleep well?”
“Thank you, yes. Especially for the water to wash with. You shouldn't have troubled.” A brief smile creased his cheeks. “But thank you. As you saw, it is been a while since I have made the acquaintance of a pitcher and soap.”
With the dust and weeds washed from his hair and a freshly shaved jaw, he looked like the hero of an Arthurian tale, a knight on a quest. His sandy eyebrows and lashes formed a contrast to the dark-blue eyes that had struck her yesterday. Did he remember their brief encounter on the Plymouth dock three years ago? she wondered, reliving how thrilling it had been to look up and see the handsome young fugitive stop in his flight to help her to her feet. Would a man capable of a horrendous crime do such a thing? Of course not.
He had told Mrs. Parker his name was Tom West. Was it an alias? A scandal over a woman—wasn't that what the pursuing agents had implied? Or an argument over an inheritance? Or a duel? The upper classes in Europe were notoriously quick to throw down challenges, and a quick escape for the winning duelist was often necessary.
Abigail could not ask, of course, so she waited impatiently until he had finished the last crumb, then directed, “Come this way. My father wishes to meet you.”
“Of course.” He stood, with that odd mix of obedience and arrogance she had noted before.
On the way to the study, she told Tom West a little about her father. It was hardly fair to send the stranger in unprepared for what he would encounter, but it was impossible, of course, to do Miles Woodbury justice in such a short time.
As they entered, her father scowled up at them, looking fierce as a lion under his mane of iron-gray hair. Abigail knew he always looked this way when he was interrupted from his work, but Tom West, of course, could not. For a moment the tall newcomer slowed, as if assessing the situation. Then he strode toward the desk, squared his shoulders, bowed from the waist, and waited, like a soldier awaiting inspection.
Mr. Woodbury leaned forward and peered at the newcomer over his thick lenses. Then his mouth quirked ironically. “Why, it is our faithful retainer, Rufus Smith, returned after all this time!”
Tom and Abigail exchanged quick glances. So her father had not forgotten either.
Mr. Woodbury stood, palms flat on his desk, and his brows came down. “I am not the idiot my daughter seems to think I am, young man. Did you suppose I have forgotten that unseemly scene before we disembarked from England?”
“No, sir. I—”
“I understand you brought a recommendation from a respectable woman, a friend of my daughter's. If not for that, you would be out on your ear this minute.” His voice was like thunder.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Woodbury surveyed Tom over the top of his glasses again. “Am I to take it that you have got yourself in some other sort of trouble?”
Tom stiffened, and his color heightened. “I would rather not discuss my circumstances. They do not affect you. I plan to leave as soon as I have earned enough to buy a wagon and supplies, and that’s all you need to know.”
With uncharacteristic magnanimity, Mr. Woodbury overlooked the curt response. Something the newcomer had said had interested him. “A wagon? What for?”
“Yes, sir.” When the pause lengthened, Tom added, with apparent reluctance, “I plan to farm in the Ohio country.”
“You intend to emigrate to the new territories?” Mr. Woodbury's bushy eyebrows rose.
“Yes, sir, as soon as I am able.”
Woodbury pursed his lips and drummed his square-tipped fingers on the scarred surface of the old desk. Abigail recalled that her father had often spoken of the need for people to settle and civilize the young frontier, recently opened by the Northwest Act for settling. This was a point in Tom's favor. More importantly, however, she could see that her father was yearning to have done with the conversation and get back to a nap in his comfortable armchair.
“A noble goal,” Mr. Woodbury said grudgingly. “You seem a well enough young man, in spite of your predilection for getting yourself into scrapes. Perhaps we can find a place for you while you prepare to leave. But we cannot provide a salary,” he added emphatically. “You can earn your keep by doing odd jobs around the house while you look for paid employment. That's the best I can offer.”
“Thank you, sir. It is more than I could have asked for.”
“Quite right.” Mr. Woodbury's rejoinder was absent-minded. He was reaching for his feather pen, as if anxious to get back to work. Only his daughter knew that the moment he was alone, his head would drop onto his chest and soon he would be snoring peacefully. “I'm sure my daughter can find something for you to do to make yourself useful,” he added, scrawling something on a piece of foolscap without looking up. “She's always complaining about tripping over flagstones, finding mice in the pantry, and whatnot.”
Despite the tone of dismissal, the young man did not leave immediately. His eyes had fixed on a small, dark painting in a heavy frame directly behind Mr. Woodbury's desk.
“Excuse me sir, but is that a Rembrandt?”
Mr. Woodbury turned. He studied the engraving, an image of a turbaned man facing an angel who was wielding a sword. Both faces were cast in deep shadow.
“I believe it is a replica of one. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, except it appears familiar. I could have sworn I have seen one just like it.”
“Really?” Mr. Woodbury adjusted his glasses and peered more closely at the picture.
Tom cleared his throat and stepped back. “No. I must be mistaken. It was another one, I’m sure. There was a slight resemblance, that is all. The picture is so dark, it is really hard to tell.”
“And yet Rembrandts are very distinctive.” Woodbury studied Tom curiously. “Where was it that you saw it?”
A brief pause, as if Tom were deciding whether to provide the information. “It hung in the house where I used to live.”
Abigail noticed that as Tom gazed at the painting, his face revealed a mixture of sorrow, anger, and longing. Then he turned away from the picture and his features grew shuttered again as he bowed again. “Begging your pardon, sir. Good day.”
Abigail followed him out the door, bursting with curiosity. What kind of vagabond could identify a Rembrandt at a glance? Lord Marlowe had presented the engraving to her father after Mr. Woodbury had admired the original. “Muddy sort of picture, if you ask me,” the lord had stated. “I prefer pictures of race horses and hunting dogs. But if you like it so much, I shall have a copy made.”
Tom West must have lived in a house as grand as Blackgrave Manor, she thought, or how else would he be familiar with such things? Perhaps her romantic notion that he was a fallen nobleman might be true after all. The thought reminded her of the only nobleman of that age she knew, Jonathan Marlowe. How different the two men were! She could not imagine Jonathan Marlowe bending over to polish his own Hessians or soiling his kid gloves by pic
king an apple off a tree. One of the sayings of her father’s old friend Benjamin Franklin came back to her: “A plowman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his knees.”
“My father seems a little gruff,” Abigail apologized. “But he's a lamb, really, once you get to know him.”
“He is very kind to let me work here,” Tom said with stiff courtesy.
“Oh, he wouldn't have hired just anyone. He's very stubborn. You'll find out, soon enough. But it is obvious he likes you.”
Surprise crossed his face. “Why?”
Abigail thought this over. She wasn't sure, unless her father had sensed the same thing she had. That this was a good man who had seen hard times and who deserved help.
“He's lonely,” she said at last. “He hasn't come out of his shell since my mother passed. Maybe he thinks it will do him good to have another man around the place. Someone to listen to his ideas.”
“Listen to his ideas…?”
She was already heading down the hall. “Let me show you around. After all, this will be your home until you find a position elsewhere.” She felt a pang at the thought of him leaving, perhaps because of that strange sense of sympathy that had made her defend him against the English agents, and which had, later, sent her running across the New Jersey dock to speak to him before their ways parted. Or perhaps it was another emotion, better not examined too closely.
After showing him around the old house with its dark, cramped hallways and mullioned windows, Abigail left him outside with an ax and a stack of firewood. She was still bursting with questions that she dared not ask. Maybe over the next few days, he would let some information drop.
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