Abigail blushed. She knew she was the object of sympathy from her friends, but until recently she had been content with her lot. Normally she would have countered her friend’s pitying words with spirit, but today she found herself floundering to respond.
She was saved from answering by a nurse who came in and reached for the infant in Abigail’s arms. “Time for the little ones to sleep, Mrs. Osgood. It's past their naptime."
After the nurse tucked the twins into their cradles, Sarah planted a final kiss on their little foreheads before taking Abigail's arm and leading her to a sitting room where tea had been laid out. As Abigail accepted a cup, Sarah fixed her with a searching look. “All right, what is it? Don't pretend this is an ordinary call. You've been quite as much a hermit lately as your father.”
Abigail remembered her letter and held it out. “I was going to post this, but since you live so close, I decided to bring it to you myself.”
Sarah took the letter and read it silently, her fair eyebrows rising as her eyes moved down the page. Then the letter dropped into her lap, and she stared at Abigail.
Abigail found herself compelled to break the awkward silence. “I can assure you, Tom is strong as an ox, and as hardworking. Unfortunately we can't afford to hire him ourselves, so I thought perhaps you....”
Sarah's expression grew shrewd. “Strong as an ox, is he?”
“Oh, yes. He's very tall and has broad shoulders.”
“Hmm. And according to your letter he is intelligent and well spoken. How did you meet this paragon?”
“Our paths crossed in England. Later, a mutual friend sent him to us.” Abigail stirred her tea, looking down so her friend could not see her face.
“Unfortunately,” said Sarah slowly, “We are fully staffed right now.”
Abigail looked up to see Sarah tapping her chin with one finger. “But ... if it matters so much to you, I shall speak to my husband. I'm sure we can find something around here for this strong young fellow to do. I'm very curious to meet him.”
After similar visits to other households, Abigail returned with a full list of friends in urgent need of fences repaired, outbuildings painted, and roofs re-shaked. All of them were as anxious as Sarah to meet Tom West.
She found him in the garden, his loose-fitting shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he planted strawberries in the late-afternoon heat. As he listened to her news, a look of surprise crossed his face. “Thank you,” he said, after a pause.
Abigail couldn’t prevent warmth from creeping up her face. “People are always looking for good help, naturally.”
“Naturally.”
He went back to work, and she found herself hovering, unable to leave. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, however, and after a few minutes, feeling foolish, she dragged herself back into the house.
* * *
It took all of Tom’s control to keep working with Abigail standing nearby. Despite his acute consciousness of her presence, he knew better than to show it. He had learned his lesson painfully, and he had paid dearly for it. In the old days, perhaps he would have gladly chatted with Abigail, flirted with her, paid her the attention she obviously wished for. But he was no longer the light-hearted, irrepressible boy he had once been.
The fact was, he mourned his late wife deeply, more so due to the painful knowledge that he had not loved her enough while she was still alive. Those first few weeks after her death he’d woken up blindly reaching for her and been chagrined to find the bed empty. When had he had grown to care for Mabel? he wondered now. And why hadn’t he realized it sooner?
Tom closed his eyes, remembering how Mabel Radstone's loyalty and innate sweetness had won him over until he had no longer noticed the plainness of her face. Marriage had changed her, too. Her painful shyness had dissipated, and while he had been planning their journey to build a farm of their own, she would look up at him, her slightly protruding eyes filled with new laughter, her thin frame swelling out with the new life she was creating, and tease him about his obsessive dream.
Coming to himself, Tom realized he had yanked out a thriving strawberry plant along with the weeds. Carefully, he tucked the plant back into the ground, patting dirt around it. It was not only Mabel he mourned, Tom admitted to himself as a fresh stab of pain passed through him. He remembered the bundle the midwife had passed into his arms, how he had only glimpsed the babe a few moments before the midwife had covered the small body and removed it from his presence. But that did not make the ache any less keen.
Now Tom knew love only caused pain, made him vulnerable and weak. Hadn’t he learned that often enough? He’d rather live like a monk than suffer the consequences of another entanglement, he told himself harshly. Besides, although he had come to the Woodburys for assistance, he oddly resented Abigail for his dependence on her. Once he had vowed not to need anyone ever again, and he had suffered from not keeping that vow. Now all he wanted was freedom, and that lay far from here, out west, away from those who would insinuate themselves into his life. West of the mountains nothing would matter but his own strength and skill.
Even so, as he worked Tom found his thoughts kept returning to Abigail. She was not achingly beautiful, like Jenny, nor as slavishly devoted as Mabel, but if things had gone differently, he may well have been more attracted to her than the others. He pictured her pert face, intelligent eyes, and stubborn chin, framed by those thick red-gold locks, through which he was tempted to run his fingers. Her smiles were not coy or artificial like those of so many young women, but a reflection of an inner joy that seemed to bubble over as if she could not contain it.
He stopped working and absent-mindedly swept strands of hair out of his eyes with his forearm. Enough of that. Perhaps he couldn’t control his dreams, but he must and would control his thoughts while awake. It was a good thing he’d be leaving Cambridge soon, Tom told himself. In the meantime, it would be better from now on to take his meals at the tavern, despite the expense. If only the Woodburys were not so cursedly likeable! And if only Abigail Woodbury did not have such a slender waist and such an appealing laugh that lit up her gray eyes!
They had not been laughing just now, however, he remembered. Pain had darkened them when he had rebuffed her attempts to make conversation. For a moment, his resolve wavered. Then, from deep inside him came a surge of boiling anger, so strong his hands shook. No! Curse Abigail Woodbury and her gray eyes! Curse all women!
He was no longer a naïve gardener who felt tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of a bit of ribbon and lace. Nor was he a self-assured footman dallying with lovestruck parlormaids in dark corners, or an unhappy indentured servant tricked into matrimony against his will. He was Tom West, soon-to-be master of his fate, and he would not allow himself to be sidetracked by a saucy, red-haired American minx.
Swearing aloud, he grasped his trowel and moved on to the next row.
* * *
Although Abigail was disappointed in her attempt to converse with Tom, she comforted herself with the unexpected benefit of his presence—increased time to do whatever she pleased. Her best friend, Sarah Osgood, had been right. Now that Mr. Woodbury had found a new companion with whom to discuss his theories, he no longer seemed to need his daughter’s presence as frequently. And the time-consuming tasks which used to overwhelm her now seemed to take care of themselves.
Although Tom West frequently absented himself for long periods, working at the jobs Abigail had arranged for him as well as others he found for himself, he managed to keep things running smoothly at the Woodburys' house. He took on chores without being asked and apparently without expectation of thanks or reward. He fixed the wobbly leg of the iron stove in the kitchen, whitewashed the fence that encircled the newly expanded vegetable garden, and built a coop for a bevy of new chickens so the Woodburys could have fresh eggs without going to market.
As the weeks passed, Abigail found herself hoping that he had dropped his plans to leave. Maybe he found life in Ca
mbridge pleasant. Maybe … she allowed herself the luxury of daydreaming again … maybe he did not wish to leave her father. Or her.
At night, before the candles were snuffed, he sat in the parlor and talked with her father for an hour or two, stumbling through the Iliad and discussing politics and history with increasing skill. She was gratified to see the exchanges brought her father much pleasure. No longer did he nod off at his desk, alone, when she was not there to read to him. He seemed to be younger, more full of life, his eyes sparkling as the two men conversed.
One day, Tom surprised his host by saying, “Perhaps, sir, I know something about the ancient world you do not.”
Mr. Woodbury’s eyes lit up under the bushy gray brows, and he leaned forward. “Well, then, young man, what is it?”
“Those roses out front.” Tom nodded in the direction of the window. “They happen to be Damask roses, prized for their perfume."
"Oh?" Mr. Woodbury glanced toward where the rose bushes were planted, although they were not visible in the dark. "Isn't one rose very much like another?"
"Not those, sir. A crusader is said to have brought that variety back from Damascus more than five hundred years ago, while other accounts say it was the Romans who brought them to England, from whence they were brought to America. That means in front of your house grows a link to the ancient world!” Tom leaned back in his chair, grinning like a schoolboy who completed his recitation satisfactorily.
Mr. Woodbury stared at him for a moment, then gave a loud, whooping laugh. He leaned over and clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Well done! Well done! You've taught me something about the ancient world I did not know.”
Tom's face grew red with pleasure, and Abigail looked on with pride, as if Cromwell had sat up and performed a new trick.
“I cannot take credit for my knowledge, sir,” Tom said, although his grin widened. “I learned the information from this book.” He held out a battered volume that Abigail had seen on his nightstand, holding it as if it were a valued treasure. “I've been studying this at night, before going to bed. At first, I had trouble understanding the words, but it comes easily now.”
Other than the clothes on Tom's back, the book appeared to be his only possession. Once, when he was away, Abigail had curiously flipped through a few of its pages, but it seemed to be nothing but a book on farming, and she had quickly lost interest.
Mr. Woodbury nodded approvingly, however. “That is a well-known book on horticulture. Although I have not read it myself, I've seen it in the libraries of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, both of whom are interested in husbandry. I’m impressed that you have a copy.”
As they pored over the book, Abigail watched the men's heads bent together, one grizzled, the other golden, and an odd feeling filled her chest. Pride, perhaps. After all, she had rescued Tom, found him employment, nursed him back to health, and as a result, her father had found a reason to come out of his study and rejoin the living. Tom West fit into their household as if he had always belonged there, like a missing piece of a puzzle. Life now seemed complete, or nearly so.
She was congratulating herself on her own good judgment and feeling pleased that Mrs. Parker had sent him to their home when a disturbing thought occurred to her. Her hands fell into her lap, along with her sewing.
How had she not seen it before? Her feelings for Tom West were neither pride nor curiosity nor pity. She was in love with him.
Chapter Seventeen
The next day Abigail gathered the courage to tell Benjamin Pinckney no longer to call. For the first time, she now realized why it was that whenever Tom was near, her awareness of him affected her every action, why she was as attuned to him as a violin to the strings of a bow. Why, if a constable were to turn up tomorrow saying Tom West was wanted for a crime, she would even lie to protect him. But then, hadn’t she already done that?
That night, she sat by the fire with the unfinished sewing in her lap. The scene was the same as before, the men animatedly discussing something or other, but Abigail knew everything had changed forever. What a fool! she told herself, jabbing herself with a needle and sucking the blood. Her friends would say she was nothing but a spinster desperately looking for someone to pin her heart on, that the stranger had come along at the right time. They may well be right. But knowing she was a fool made no difference. She had fallen in love with a man she had no hope of marrying even if he returned her affection, as he so clearly did not.
Marrying. Now where had that thought come from? Worse and worse!
With a pang, she confronted the fact that she had never detected the least soupçon of affection on Tom's part. No tenderness in those well shaped, deep-blue eyes, no sentimental gestures to indicate a soft spot in his heart for her. Oh, there was nothing to complain of. He was unfailingly courteous, remote, and punctiliously observant of the difference in their stations. In fact, his behavior, she thought bitterly, had been beyond reproach.
Tom never initiated conversations with her, never looked at her directly unless she spoke to him. He appeared to prefer her father's company or solitude. On the occasions when she entered a room and found him alone, he would immediately excuse himself and leave. He’d rather read the dry historical tomes her father pressed on him or that silly book on agriculture than spend an unsupervised minute in her presence.
She threw down her sewing and, muttering an excuse to the startled men, hurried from the sitting room, slammed the door to her bedroom, and burst into tears.
Later, Abigail dried her face and looked in the mirror glumly. She wasn't bad looking, she thought, trying to be objective despite her red nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and disheveled hair. Not a great beauty, perhaps, but she had never seen a man back away from her in horror. She had a neat little figure, and, her friends seemed to think, a pleasant personality. She had turned down three proposals simply because none of the swains had stirred her heart, and it was not her fault that since her mother's death, her retreat from society had brought fewer opportunities for marriage.
She looked down at the giant dog that crouched at her feet, jowls on his front legs. “I’m in love with a man who cares nothing for me, Cromwell,” she said sadly. “A man about whom I know nothing except he is a fugitive.”
Cromwell watched her silently as she contemplated this demoralizing thought but offered no advice. Finally, she jumped up and went to wash her face. “I can mope and feel sorry for myself,” she firmly told the wan image in the mirror, “or I can do something about it."
It took all morning to screw up her courage. She found herself turning back several times, but finally she found him out back, painting the roof of the henhouse. She hid her trembling hands in her full skirts and took several deep breaths before approaching. Cromwell abandoned her and loped over to Tom, who stepped off the stepstool and gave the dog an absent-minded scratch behind the ear.
“Yes, Miss Woodbury?” he asked, straightening and wiping his hands on a rag.
She gulped. No turning back now. She might be a forward hussy, but she was no coward. “Please do not call me Miss Woodbury,” she said, meeting his eyes directly. “After all this time, we consider you part of the family. I would prefer you to call me Abigail.”
“Thank you, Miss Woodbury, but that wouldn't be proper.”
With a sound of exasperation, she put her hand on his forearm. It was the first time she had touched him, an act of boldness equal to that of Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon. He flinched slightly, and she was very aware of rock-hard muscles under the tanned flesh under his rolled-up sleeves.
“Come, now, Tom,” she said beseechingly. “You mustn’t treat me as if I were a stranger. You seem to like my father well enough. Aren't we friends, too?”
His reserve wrapped around him like armor protecting a knight. His rigid posture made him seem even taller than she remembered, and she had to tilt her head to see his face. Cromwell sat on his haunches, looking back and forth at them, as if sensing tension between his two favorite hum
ans.
“You are my employer, Miss Woodbury.”
“I’m not your employer! We pay you nothing. You are our guest, Tom, a member of this household.”
He did not answer, but his lashes dropped over his eyes, and she wondered what thoughts were going through his mind. When it came, Tom's response was toneless.
“Your father may claim that there is no difference between people of different stations, Miss Woodbury, but as you know, the professor … the professor is a very unusual man.” The afternoon sun turned his hair into a bright golden nimbus and threw his eyes into shadow. After a moment, he gently began to withdraw his arm.
Instinctively she tightened her grip. “My father and I have no secrets from you, Tom. Why have you never told us anything about yourself?"
He looked down at her fingers and a muscle worked in his temple. She sensed that his rigidity was not from anger, as she had first supposed, but from some other emotion that she could not identify.
“What is it that you wish to know?”
She blinked, surprised at his apparent acquiescence. “Where you're from," she said immediately. "Who you are.”
“You already know. My name is Tom West, and I come from England.”
She expelled an impatient gust of air.
He shrugged. “Very well. If you must know, I used to live on a large estate in Kent. One of the finest in Britain.”
It was as if she had pried a door ajar and glimpsed what lay behind it, confirming much of what she had suspected. “I visited a large English estate once,” she said, eagerly. “The house was beautiful, and so were the gardens. It must have been very difficult for you to leave.”
His eyes grew far away, but she couldn't identify their expression. “It's the gardens I miss most,” he said, as if to himself. “But yes, the house was beautiful too, in its own way. I was a footman there.”
The Gardener Page 21