The Gardener (16 page)

As Tom shook the wrappings to see if Isaac had included a note, something metallic fell out and landed on the loft floor with a musical tinkle. A silver spoon. He picked it up, inspecting it curiously. When he turned it over, he saw the monogram “M” engraved on the back of the bowl.

He chuckled. So Isaac had burglarized Blackgrave Manor after all, and this was the pickpocket's way of telling him so. But how on earth had Isaac known about the book? It had been safely hidden under Tom's mattress, where he always kept it. Had Isaac somehow encountered Campbell, who had asked the pickpocket to send the book to Tom? He could hardly imagine how the two had crossed paths. Probably, he would never know.

Tom hid his treasures where Henry would not see them, his mind already busy with new ideas. He had always thought perhaps to go back to England when his indentures were finished. Now he began to wonder why he should return. In the end, that place had brought him nothing but unhappiness, while America offered at least the hope for land and the prospect of freedom. The horticulture book, arriving today of all days, seemed like a talisman, a sign that he should reassess his future.

Going outside, Tom studied the plain, dirt courtyard with new eyes. He had come to realize the flowers he had moved were nothing more than houndstooth and pennyroyal, although they looked different than the plants he had known in England, more upright, and with longer leaves. They were not merely decorative, but Betty used them as remedies for stomach pains and in poultices. Nevertheless, as Mabel had said, the squat red-brick house was more attractive these days, with the flowers softening its harsh edges. But so much more could be done. Why not plant fruit trees in that empty corner near the kitchen door, to cool the house in the summer and provide apples and peaches? A larger herb garden by the kitchen window, fragrant with tarragon and basil? And roses, of course. No house was a home without roses. He could train them to climb along that bare wall and add welcome notes of color. Mabel and Betty would enjoy them. Most women liked roses, although Jenny had preferred camellias.

He jerked his mind away. Even now, her memory brought pain.

Forcing his thoughts back to the point, he mused that the kitchen garden could be improved as well. Why not add more variety to the few short rows of spindly onions and carrots, so Henry would not need to make so many trips to market? And a cheerful border of marigolds, to keep away the pests. His fingers itched to get started.

Now that Betty no longer burdened him with minor tasks, Tom snatched every precious free minute to work with a spade and watering can. It felt good to be outside, to breathe fresh air again. His melancholy, which he had worn like an old and tattered cloak, lifted temporarily when he labored in the soil. But even that was not enough to make him happy.

Finally, he admitted to himself that his self-imposed loneliness had palled. He missed having someone to talk to, like in the old days, with Lemley and Rosie. Betty was the best candidate, of course. She was the only one who seemed to understand him.

He had already taken the first step with the fumbling apology. Now he looked for other ways to win the cook's favor. When she stepped away from the butter churn to tend the fire, he silently finished the task. On wash day, he took down the laundry without being asked and folded it neatly into the basket. When she was at church on Sunday, he shined her boots with lampblack and left them outside her room. She accepted these small acts of service with her head as proud as an African queen's under its colorful wrap, but she still did not speak to him except to give him orders.

Tom wondered at her continued silence. He had hoped they had forged a tentative truce that day when he had followed her to the kitchen, but Betty treated the others in the household far differently than him. To Miss Radstone, she showed pity and kindness. With Henry, she was brusque and blustery, boxing his ears when he was slow to act, and the next moment urging him to eat another muffin. “You's too skinny,” she would complain. “Eat up, boy, or the wind will blow you away.” On the few occasions when her path crossed Radstone's, she treated him as an equal.
She
ran the household, her raised chins and firm tone seemed to say, while Radstone merely ran the smithy, and he would do well to stay out of her way. Oddly, the master seemed to accept this, as did the others.

Finally, Tom had had enough of being ignored. One day, as he was training the branches of the newly planted espaliered apple trees, he saw the cook stoop outside the kitchen door to scratch the ginger-colored cat behind the ears. Then she stepped around Tom as if he were a tree stump or a bucket someone had carelessly left out, and continued on her way to the kitchen garden, where she presented her broad back to him and knelt to pull carrots.

Fuming, he finished his task, then strode to the summer kitchen, where he found Betty up to her elbows in flour, making pies. The room was nearly as hot as the smithy but filled with the pleasant odors of spices and yeast.

Radstone had left this afternoon on unspecified business, and for once the forge was closed. Mabel was ... who knew where she was? Hovering spectrally somewhere, no doubt. Henry was in the stable, caring for the mule's lame leg. For once, he and Betty were alone, with no one to interrupt them.

Tom pulled a spindle-backed chair with a loud squeak across the flagstone floor and plopped into it backward in the way he preferred, arms folded across the top, staring at Betty. “All right, then. What is it?”

She lifted her large head, blinking. “What you talking about?”

“
You
know. Why have you been ignoring me?”

She turned back to her work. “Ignoring you? What kind of fool question is that? I ain't ignoring you.”

“You haven't said a thing about all the changes I've made around here. You haven't even thanked me for saving your dying garden.”

“Ain't my house,” she pointed out without looking up from her kneading. “Ain't my garden. This all belongs to Mr. Radstone.”

“You know I didn't do any of it for him. I did it for
you.
” He paused, and his voice grew bitter. “You're still angry because you thought I was rude that first day, when we met.”

“I'm not angry. And you
was
rude.”

“I guess I was.” He cracked his knuckles as he used to before Campbell had informed him it was a loutish thing to do. He’d almost forgotten the old habit. “But what I said then—that was
then
. Things are different now.” When her expression did not change, he added, somewhat sulkily, “I apologized already, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did.”
Slap.
A puff of flour rose from the slab of dough.

Strange
, he thought, bewildered. Betty did not seem the type to hold a grudge. He wasn't sure why she was so angry with him, nor why her approval mattered so much to him. But it did. Surprisingly so.

She punched her fist into the dough a last time and flipped it over, seeming to be considering something. Finally, she spoke, and her voice was gentler. “I ain't angry at you. Truth is, I never cared two figs about what you did or did not say that first day. Not that I ain't glad you finally come about and apologize,” she added brusquely. “Although it took you long enough.”

“Then why...?”

She stretched and re-stretched the dough under her big hands. Her face wore a frown of reproof. “I know you thought you was better than us at first, with your fancy manners and your fine speech. Down deep, I think you still do.” Her voice softened. “But you're just a boy, and have a lot to learn.”

“Then you don't despise me?” He looked up hopefully.

“Despise you? I seen how hard you work. And I knew it was for me that you planted them flowers, and done all those improvements in the yard. You're a good man, Mister Tom West, even if you do not quite know it yet.” Her tone hardened again. “But there's one thing I cannot forgive you for.”

“What is it?”

She stopped and fixed him with a steely look. “You indentured, ain't you?”

“You know I am.”

She seemed to feel she had answered his question; she twisted off a large hunk of dough, the sleeves of her cotton dress pushed up to her elbows and flour dusting her strong fingers. For her, the conversation was over.

But when he pressed her for an explanation, she finally deigned to explain: “You know what that means, don't you? 'Indentured?'"

His brow wrinkled at the question. “It means I must work for Mr. Radstone until I have paid the cost of my passage, of course.”

“Well, then! You done sold yourself into bondage, that's what I mean!”

“I suppose you could look at it that way. But…”

“You a stupid man!” She deftly formed the lump of dough into a loaf, her movements rapid and angry. “My husband worked ten years on a sugar plantation in Haiti to buy my freedom. The morning of the day I left, he died dead in his tracks. Heart burst. Since then, I been working ten years more to free my son.” Her voice softened. “He'd be about your age. I imagine he's as tall as you, too, by now, maybe as strong or stronger. A handsome lad, with curly eyelashes and a grin that would just 'bout stop your heart.”

She hauled off and shoved the heels of her palms into the dough with a force that resounded through the kitchen. “Then
you
come along!”

“Me?” He was puzzled.

She nodded grimly. “Look at you! You was born with your freedom. And you chose to throw it away, like a mess of spoiled turnip greens!” Her full lips stretched into a straight line, and she turned back to the stove, presenting him with her stubborn back. It was a view he was used to.

“You're wrong,” he argued. “I did not have as much freedom as you think. And I shall not be stuck here forever, either. Just seven years…”

She did not turn around, but the set of her shoulders told him she was not impressed. He was tempted to tell her that had he not accepted his indentures he would be in gaol or, worse, dead on the scaffold. Liberty had not been a choice for him. But he remembered it would be dangerous to tell anyone about his fugitive status, even Betty.

Just then, a soft, uncertain voice interrupted them.

“T…Tom?”

Tom spun around. It was Miss Mabel Radstone. Strands of her mousy hair hung lank below her cap, her bulbous eyes were diffident. “Father has come back from town, and he wants to see you. Something about that lock you were making for the Wilsons.” Her voice was so faint he could hardly make out the words.

Tom pushed out of his chair, fighting his annoyance. Then, feeling the cook's glare burn into his back, he remembered to bow in Mabel's direction.

“Yes, Miss Radstone.”

Over Mabel's head, his eyes met those of the cook. “Good-bye, Betty.”

*     *     *

Over the next few days, Tom found himself mulling over Betty's words.
You was born with your freedom. And you chose to throw it away, like a mess of spoiled turnip greens.
Freedom. He had not known she valued it so highly. He thought of how the cook's husband had fought to buy her liberty and never knew it himself. Once again he felt the yearning that had germinated during his dinner with the Merkel family, when he'd heard of the cheap farmland available beyond the mountains.

Betty was right: he possessed few more rights than an African-born slave. Tom could not leave the property without Radstone's permission, and could not hire himself out to customers who asked for his services, even in his spare time. Even more, deep inside Tom's soul, it chafed to be held inferior to a man he respected so little.

Things had not been much different at Blackgrave Manor, but there, his circumstances had been easier to bear. For one thing, he had not felt his low status as deeply, maybe then, because he had expected nothing more. America had done something to him, had made him dissatisfied. Perhaps it was the knowledge that so many of the people here, business owners, had started with nothing, just like him.

In the old days, strutting down the marble halls of Blackgrave Manor in his fine livery, Tom had risen about as far as possible for one of his station. He had thought only of his good fortune to live in luxury, surrounded by beautiful things, even if they belonged to someone else. A soft bed and good food were all he had cared for. Freedom? The word had never entered his head until he had been cast into prison and knew, for the first time, that it was the only thing worth possessing.

Here, things were different, he thought. Maybe the after-effects of the recent War of American Independence were to blame. It felt as if he were sitting at a banquet where everyone else was free to indulge but him. All he could do was look on, hungrily.

*     *     *

Meanwhile, things were deteriorating at the forge. Radstone seemed to be growing jealous of his apprentice's improving skills. When one of Radstone's competitors tried to buy Tom's indentures, he angrily ordered Tom not to speak to the customers and forced him to sit at the back of the forge. Visits to town were off limits. Tom's hopes of seeing the Merkel family again were dashed.

The blacksmith's temper, never good on the best days, worsened. He fell into a rage at the slightest imagined offense, and if Tom dropped a hammer, Radstone swore and cuffed him, nearly knocking him into the fire. Only with difficulty did Tom restrain himself from striking back. He was taller, and by now stronger, but the consequences, he knew, would be dire. So he accepted the insult wordlessly, but inside, he seethed.