Then she went up to her room to write a letter of introduction to her friends and acquaintances. With Tom's strong back and the muscles evident under his rolled-up shirt sleeves, she was sure he would have no trouble finding plenty of work. But as she wrote, the quill pen scratching across the paper, the old question kept burning in the back of her mind: Who is Tom West, really?
Chapter Sixteen
Tom hefted the axe, felt its weight and judged its balance, then started on the stack of firewood. It felt good to work after the long days of walking. In the forge, he had also released himself into pure, animal activity, freeing himself of the need to think. Thinking only led to pain, to frustration, to rage.
But the thoughts intruded anyway. Seeing the Rembrandt hanging over the professor’s desk had jolted himself out of his stupor, and nearly caused Tom to give himself away. That same painting had hung in the marble corridor at Blackgrave Manor. Had Lord Marlow presented it to the Woodburys as a parting gift? Or was it a copy? Either way, the sight stirred up a visceral mix of angry and painful memories.
In the future, he must remember to control his reactions. At all costs, the woman and her father must not learn who he was or where he had come from, lest the past follow him here. He was a new man now, starting a new life twice over. What a misfortune it was, Tom thought, bringing the axe down with a savage thwack, that of all the places he might have run to for refuge, Mrs. Parker had sent him to the one house in America with ties to Lord Marlowe. How ironic if his kindly American hosts were to become inadvertently responsible for sending him back to England and the gallows! But it appeared that Mr. and Miss Woodbury still had not made that critical connection. So far.
Tom was aware those were not his only troubles. Mr. Radstone would be searching for him, and the Woodburys may hear of it. If they knew he was a runaway indentured servant, they would be sure to send him back to Providence.
Then, with a rise of hope, Tom remembered that the young lady had come to his rescue once before. Maybe she would do so again. And the father, too.
Pausing for a moment to wipe away the sweat stinging his eyes, Tom considered this possibility. His hosts did not seem the type that would promise refuge one moment and then plot his downfall the next. But he hardly dared risk everything on their continued good will. He must leave again, and soon.
Hardly aware of the rhythmic swish of the axe in the air, the thunk and crack as the logs split, he pondered. It was imperative that he stay in Cambridge only as long as necessary to buy what he needed. After that, he would head west to the Ohio Territory. Once he was there, nothing could stop him. Not Lord Marlowe, not Mr. Radstone. He would finally be his own man.
Tom's heart began to beat faster, and his grip tightened on the axe handle as he allowed himself to picture the scene: a small cabin, hewn of logs, standing on a low hill overlooking a winding river, its roof shaded with stately oaks, like the farm his father had been driven from years before.
After finishing the pile of fire wood, he drank deeply from a pitcher of cool water that Abigail had brought out for him and surveyed the house, which would be, for the next few weeks, his home. It was large and yet older and shabbier than most of the houses that surrounded it, of gray stone with a steeply pitched roof and black-painted shutters, set close to the unpaved road with only enough room in front for a small rose garden. The garden was tiny compared with those at Blackgrave Manor, and yet the roses bloomed as brightly and emitted as sweet a fragrance.
The edifice was at least a century old and had a rather shabby gentility, with its fine old furniture and the books that crowded Mr. Woodbury's study. The library almost rivaled the one at Blackgrave Manor, except these books had been read so often their bindings were scuffed and cracked, and they were stacked and stuffed into every cranny. Tom made a mental note to clean and oil the bindings. If he did, maybe Mr. Woodbury wouldn't mind if he looked in one or two of them. He'd never had the courage to look in any of the books at the manor except the one Jonathan had given him.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Tom relaxed a little. This was the perfect place to recoup, to regather his strength, to prepare to move on, he thought. Mrs. Parker had chosen well.
Then he remembered Abigail Woodbury and frowned. She might be a problem, laughing, attractive, and a tad too intelligent. Her alert eyes often rested on him, speculating, making him uncomfortable. Fortunately her manner had been entirely appropriate, thank goodness, except for that excess of familiarity which seemed to be a peculiarly American trait.
At the same time, he remembered all too well Maeve Marlowe's insolent inspection, Mabel's shy stares. The pickpocket Isaac Harris said women were trouble—and that included no doubt even Abigail Woodbury, although on the surface she appeared no more threatening than the large, lazy dog that accompanied her everywhere.
Tom pictured her open, humorous face, her tousled auburn hair with its loose strands always escaping from under her mobcap and thought that if he let his guard down, he might find her comely enough. But he never would, of course. Let his guard down, that is. Not only because she was his host’s daughter, although that was reason enough, but because women had a way of getting between him and his goals. And that must not be allowed to happen ever again.
He thrust away thoughts of Abigail Woodbury and turned his attention back to his work. Seeing the disorder of the house made his fingers itch to put everything right. While probing around, he uncovered the remnants of a kitchen garden under a thatch of weeds and knelt to clear the invading plants away, wrenching them out by the handful and throwing them into a pile to be burned later. Underneath, squash, carrots, parsnips were struggling to grow. When Tom was done, the rows were clear, orderly, and freshly watered. He'd be gone by the time the vegetables were ready to harvest, but the thriving garden would be a fitting parting gift to the Woodburys.
At the thought of leaving, Tom's soil-crusted hands started to shake with anticipation. If only Miss Woodbury would be true to her word and find him employment soon, the more quickly to earn money and be on his way! If not, he'd go out and find work himself. There must be plenty to be had, with all the building going on in these parts. Soon he would earn enough to leave.
As the garden took shape under his swift, assured hands, he allowed himself to dream of the far-off paradise of Ohio, where plants grew the moment they were thrust into the ground, and where land could be had merely for the asking.
* * *
Mr. Woodbury looked up over his breakfast of mush and cream and looked absently around the room. “Has he left, then, that hulking young fellow? I suspected he wouldn't be here long. He had the face of someone who would never be satisfied: 'a lean and hungry look,' as the bard once said.”
“No, he's still here.” Abigail smugly poured cream into her own bowl and shook a teaspoon of sugar over the top. “Can't you tell?”
Over the past few days, the house had undergone a transformation. Every speck of dust was gone from the window sills and mantels. The Persian rugs glowed after their beatings, their colorful patterns as intricate as those of stained glass windows. The roses were flourishing, freed from the strangling weeds. The front gate swung smoothly on new hinges, and the broken flagstone in the front had been replaced. Their guest had even uncovered the long-neglected kitchen garden and managed to bring it back to life.
Tom West made himself useful in unexpected ways, too, that raised her eyebrows. For instance, he insisted on setting the table in the formal dining room, pulling out the lace tablecloth and best silver, while hinting that such work was not suited for the lady of the house—a term which made her giggle. Abigail watched, surprised, as he set the places with precision, compared to their departed maid, Grace, who had always slapped on the plates willy nilly. Now the cover looked elegant, with a fresh white tablecloth at each meal and each utensil in just the right place. Every fork, every goblet, sparkled.
Now the professor set down his spoon and adjusted his spectacles on his nose.
“Well then, where is he?”
“Eating in the kitchen, of course.”
“Nonsense! Bring him in here. He seems a likely lad, if a bit reserved. Surely he'll be interested in my latest theories about the fall of Thrace.”
“But Grace always took her meals—.”
“Grace!” He snorted. “How can you compare our guest to a prattling dunce like Grace? She belonged in the kitchen. Run off and fetch him, there's a good girl.”
When Abigail opened the kitchen door, Tom sprang to his feet. She had seen little of him lately, although it was impossible to forget his presence.
When she had finished relating her father's invitation, Tom hesitated. She had already noticed his pronounced sense of decorum, which occasionally struck her as ridiculous.
“I know the help usually doesn't eat with the family,” she explained. “But as you have probably noticed, we are hardly conventional. Besides, my father is under the impression that you might be interested in hearing his theories of Thrace. He loves to have an audience. I, of course, don't matter. I have heard his ideas too often.”
“His theories on ... .er ... Thrace?”
“The ancient country near Greece and Macedonia. You know, the home of Spartacus and Democritus.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Surely you've heard of it?”
When his face remained blank, she realized with a pang that the edifice of romantic nonsense she had constructed was just that: nonsense. If Tom West were a disgraced nobleman, surely he would have been instructed in ancient history and, most likely, be fluent in either Greek or Latin. Yet, although there were obvious gaps in his knowledge, their guest had immediately recognized the Rembrandt that hung over the mantel, and his manners and awareness of fine things were better than her own.
It was a mystery. Yet she found that she was not entirely disappointed to discover that he was probably not nobly born. Abigail thought of the haughty Anatole Corbus, of the hedonistic Jonathan Marlowe and his simpering sister, Maeve. She shuddered, remembering when Jonathan had tried to corner her in a dark hallway, assuming his prospect of a title was enough to win her over. No one knew better than Abigail Woodbury that high birth did not necessarily mean what it purported to.
Leading Tom toward the dining room, she said over her shoulder, “Do not worry, Papa will tell you all about Thrace, and Greece and Rome as well. More than you probably care to know. He was a professor of classics at Harvard until he retired a few years ago.”
As they entered, Mr. Woodbury looked up from the table. “Ah, there you are, my lad! My daughter tells me you have been working like a Trojan—an apt simile, eh? Ha, ha!—a Trojan!—fixing up this old house of ours.”
“Thank you, sir.” Tom stopped just inside the doorway, as if reluctant to come closer.
Miles Woodbury waved him in warmly. “Come, come, sit down. We care nothing for rank in this household. Americans may not have let go of all our antiquated European customs, but I claim the right to do as I wish in my own home. Have you already dined? No? Good. From now on, you will take your meals with us. I insist on it. No, no, do not object. My daughter is tired of my conversation, and another point of view will add piquancy to our debates. Our neighbors already think I am eccentric, and who am I to disappoint them, eh? Here, have a glass and tell me what you know of the Thracians. A fascinating people, do you not agree? Warlike, primitive, and yet producing some of the most advanced thinkers of their day.”
Looking cornered, Tom sank into a chair and accepted the glass Mr. Woodbury pushed toward him. “I'm afraid I know nothing about Thrace, sir, but I must compliment you on your crystal-ware. This goblet is a particularly excellent piece of Waterford, I believe, worthy of the wine.”
Mr. Woodbury grew more somber. “The set was inherited by my late wife, who was well born, from a good English family. Her parents cut her off when she married me, and the set of crystal was the only thing of value she brought with her to America. As for me, I started off with nothing.”
Tom looked around at the well-appointed room, at the thick, if faded, carpet, and the solid furniture. Woodbury followed his look and raised his goblet. “Yes, life here has been kind to me. I doubt my career would have been as successful had I remained in England, despite my success at Oxford. Unfortunately in England, birth still matters more than education.”
“Oxford?” Tom forgot himself in his surprise. “But I thought you said you started with nothing.”
“My education was paid for by a generous man of high rank who saw potential in me.” Woodbury cleared his throat and polished his glasses. “My wife’s father, as it happens. Despite our falling out over my attentions to his daughter, I owe everything I have achieved to him. But Thrace, my boy, Thrace! I wouldn't expect you to know much—sadly, young men these days do not appear as intellectually inclined as those of my generation—but surely you know something about the ancient world?”
“I'm sorry to disappoint you, sir, but you must remember that I am just a common laborer.” Tom raised his calloused hands, palm up. Abigail noticed small white scars that looked like burns, and wondered what had caused them. “Other than a few lessons in reading, I have had no opportunity for learning.”
Woodbury raised his bushy eyebrows. “A laborer, yes, but a common one?” He gestured toward the crystal goblet. “Your speech, the fact that you recognize the quality of art and wine, show you have spent time in a fine household. Perhaps you work with your hands now, but in your early years...? Come, come, my boy, there is no shame if adversity has reduced your circumstances.”
Abigail leaned forward, intrigued that her father had come to the same conclusions. To her disappointment, however, Tom set down the goblet and his handsome features took on their usual shuttered look.
“I hope you will not think me ill-mannered if I do not care to discuss my past. But I assure you that, unfortunately, I can barely read or write my name.”
Abigail sank back in her chair. This was final proof he was no Duke's younger son, that there had been no secret, dashing duel. Tom West was nothing more than he had presented himself: an uneducated working man trolling for labor. And it made no difference whatsoever. She still felt an inexplicable urge to help him, to learn more about his mysterious background, to be near him.
“Never mind.” Her father waved away Tom’s diffidence. “I hope you have no objection if I tutor you in the evenings, young man. You say you do read, a little?"
“Tutor me? In what?”
“In the classics, of course. By the time I'm finished with you, you will be the equal of any lad exiting Harvard.”
An eager look crossed Tom’s face, so fleetingly Abigail wondered if she had imagined it. Then he looked down at his big hands. “But I only wish to be a farmer, sir. What would be the use of educating someone like me?”
Mr. Woodbury airily waved his arm. “Whatever your ambitions, Mr. West, it is my belief that to succeed in any endeavor, one should have a solid education. Did you know that our own President Jefferson is a farmer? That the ancient Romans considered farming an honorable and virtuous calling? One need only think of Cincinnatus, leaving his farm to lead the troops to victory against the Sabines, then retiring to his humble plow.”
“Cincinnatus?” Tom stumbled over the name.
In spite of her chagrin at having her lofty imaginings shattered, Abigail almost laughed at his bewildered face.
Mr. Woodbury did not pause. “You will need to learn Latin, of course. Do you realize that the word 'virtue' comes from the root vir, meaning man? To the Romans, the highest virtues were wisdom, bravery, patriotism, and self- restraint.” He grabbed a quill from the sideboard and scribbled a list on a piece of foolscap. “We will begin by discussing civic virtues, based on the writings of Plutarch. Your reading and writing will naturally improve as we do so—that is, if your modesty is justified.”
“Of course.” Tom's voice sounded strangled, and his eyes followed Abigail as she excused herself and moved toward the door, so the men could continue al
one. “But if you are looking for a student, Mr. Woodbury, why not teach your daughter instead? Surely your time would be better spent—”
“I have, I have. My daughter knows more about ancient history than she ever wished to, and she is proficient in Latin and Greek. No, the idea of educating a fresh, unspoiled young mind is what interests me. Tell me, what do you know of Troy?”
Long after Abigail had left the room, she heard her father's voice rumble through the wallpapered wall of the adjoining parlor. At first, it was only his deep tones she heard, rising and falling in lecturing cadences, but after a while, as she bent over her embroidery, she heard Tom’s low voice respond. Either he was interested in the subject after all, or he was merely being a courteous guest. She smiled wryly as she bent over her silver needle. In spite of the flash of eagerness that had seemed to cross his face at the prospect of education, she wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter.
* * *
The next day, Abigail dressed in her best morning gown and walked to the home of her friend Sarah Osgood, who lived in the grandest house on Brattle Street. An Irish maid took her calling card, and soon Sarah rushed into the parlor, the ribbons on her cap fluttering. “Abigail! It has been simply ages! Come, you must see the twins. They've been growing as fast as sunflowers.”
After they exchanged hugs, Abigail allowed herself to be led to a bright nursery swathed in lace and bows. She obediently oohed and aahed over the two rosy-cheeked cherubs gurgling in matching cradles and couldn’t resist sweeping up the nearest one. It smelled of milk and perfumed soap, and she felt an unexpected stab of jealousy as she stared down at the baby's smiling little face. How wonderful it would be to hold a child of her own in her arms!
“I've missed you, Sarah,” Abigail admitted, as she stroked the infant's downy hair. “But as you know, I do not go out as often as I used to. Papa needs me.”
Sarah sniffed. “But it is selfish of him to keep you locked up inside that moldering tomb, cooking and sewing for him like an unpaid servant! No, do not defend him. What you need is a husband, so you can have a home and babies of your own”
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