The Gardener (19 page)

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As before on a similarly perilous journey, Tom traveled by night, sleeping in the underbrush during the day. To avoid being followed, he turned off the main road at the first opportunity and took deep-rutted, poorly maintained side-roads. All along the lengthy trek, he saw men chopping down trees, clearing the land, throwing up new houses and fences. It was a busy, growing land, these United States.

He kept moving during the nights, and when morning brightened the horizon, he stumbled into dry ditches and covered himself with leaves. When the night’s chill woke him, he shook off the leaves and continued walking. On the third day it rained, soaking him to the bone and reducing Mrs. Parker's letter to a limp wad of wet paper in his pocket. He was grateful he had committed the address to memory.

In Cambridge, he asked a stranger to direct him to Follen Street. The neighborhood appeared prosperous, but the windows of the house he was approaching were nearly hidden behind overgrown rosebushes, and he nearly tripped on a broken flagstone going up the path. Lifting the brass knocker, Tom let it drop, then, remembering his filthy appearance, he brushed dirt and twigs off his breeches, smoothed his rumpled coat, and propped himself against the door jamb, too weak to stand straight. With the patience of despair, he waited.

Chapter Fifteen

Summer 1795

The overpoweringly sweet scent of roses drifted through the open window. Abigail dropped the half-knitted stocking into her lap, closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply. No breeze came in to lighten the stuffy air: just a fly, now buzzing lazily about the room, and the perfume, which brought back memories of another, much larger garden in a cool green country across the ocean.

It had been many months since she had thought of the trip to England. For a moment Abigail allowed herself to be transported far away from the supper yet to be cooked, the washing to be brought in from the line, the floors to be scrubbed. Had it really been three years since she and her father had crossed the ocean to attend the wedding of her father's cousin, Anatole Corbus, and his fiancée?  She remembered Blackgrave Manor with aching clarity: the vast formal gardens with paths spreading outward as intricately as a spider's web, the army of livery-clad servants, the mile-long mahogany table groaning with delicacies. It had been a marvelous adventure.

Yet she had been glad to return to America. Lady Marlowe's expensive jewels and satins contrasted too greatly with the plain clothes of her dustmen and scullery maids, and Abigail could not forget the indignity of the footmen lining the walls like ornaments rather than fellow human beings. There were footmen in Cambridge, to be sure, some working for her own friends, but there was a vast difference in how they were treated, and that difference seemed even more marked since her return.

A crease appeared between her eyebrows as she remembered that ugly business before Anatole’s wedding: the bride in hysterics, the rushed ceremony, some rumor about a disgraced servant and a stolen snuff box. Sensing the tension, she and her father had cut short their visit and left Blackgrave Manor immediately after the ceremony.

She reapplied her knitting needles to the unfinished sock with new energy. The trip had not helped her father forget his grief after his wife’s death, as they had hoped. After their return, he disappeared into his library again to bury himself in research, but in spite of long hours of seclusion, he had never finished the book he intended to write. Their financial reserves, already slender and strained by the long trip, had shrunk until they had barely enough left for essentials.

One by one, the Woodburys had let go their small staff, but it had been a particular blow when their maid, Grace, had left to care for her aging mother. Now Abigail was left to manage the large old house on her own.

“Servants are an unnecessary expense,” her father said without looking up from his papers when Abigail hesitantly asked about hiring a new serving girl. “There is no dishonor in opening one's own door, my dear, and you're perfectly capable of cooking simple meals and keeping house for two.”

He was right, of course, but she missed her conversations with plump, jolly Grace. Her friends, most of whom at least had a hired girl to do the washing, pitied her, but Abagail saw them less and less these days, now that they were busy with babies and husbands.

Sighing, she surveyed the regular rows left by the knitting needles. Her mother had taught her to embroider samplers and decorative seat covers with silk thread, but these days, Abigail's quick fingers were turned to more useful purposes. The warm woolen socks would come in handy for her father this winter, and if things continued as they were, soon she would be reduced to patching their clothes as well.

Unless …. Her brow puckered again. She could always marry Benjamin Pinckney. Perhaps she had been too prideful in rejecting his numerous proposals. Picturing his pale, pudgy features, weak chin, and damp fingers, Abigail forced herself to remember his good qualities: steadiness, and perseverance, and a rare willingness to overlook her blunt forthrightness, which over the years had driven off other would-be suitors.

At the ripe old age of twenty-three, what choice did she have? She enjoyed caring for her father, but she could not live with him forever. Most of her friends were settled now, and marriage and family were the only possible future for a respectable young woman. What a shame that a life of adventure did not enter the list of possibilities.

Just then, the sharp sound of the brass knocker made her jump, and the Great Dane snoring by her side leaped to its feet, emitting a low growl.

“Shhh, Cromwell. No doubt it is Mr. Pinckney, come to pay his respects again.”

Cromwell stayed prone, but he watched, ears pricked and muscles tensed, as she set aside her sewing basket and rose, a bit curious. Benjamin had called just yesterday; normally, he would not return until tomorrow. Her loyal suitor never broke his routine.

When Abigail opened the door, she gasped and instinctively stepped back. Blotting out the sun stood an enormous stranger framed in the doorway, wearing filthy, tattered clothes, a hat pulled low over his head, and a week's growth of beard. This was not Benjamin Pinkney, nor a knife-sharpener, nor a salesman vending apples.

Before she could slam the door, the stranger inserted a dusty boot into the crack. “Excuse me, Miss.” His voice cracked, and she saw him swallow, hard. “I was given this address by someone who told me good people lived here who would not turn me away.”

Cromwell wedged himself beside her, growling, and Abigail reached down to grasp his collar. The dog's warm pressure through her skirts and petticoats calmed her momentary fear, and she looked at the man curiously. His cultured words did not match his appearance, and there was an odd air of familiarity about him, but she could not think why. Something about his height and the width of his shoulders.

The stranger looked down at Cromwell, his tall body tensing, but he did not budge from the doorstep in spite of the dog’s low growl.

The fellow has courage
, she thought with reluctant admiration. Most people were afraid of Cromwell because of his great size and threatening demeanor, not knowing that the gray dog was soft-hearted and gentle.

“What do you want?” Her tone sent the message that she was busy, but for some reason she found herself lingering in the doorway. Curiosity, no doubt.

“I'm looking for work. I have a letter of introduction.” He pulled a piece damp, torn piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to her. The ink was washed away, although she could still see faint markings. A
pro forma
recommendation from a former employer, perhaps. He shoved the paper back in his pocket as if realizing it did not help his cause. “I can do anything around the house. Polish silverware, fix things, tend your garden ....” He waved toward the rosebushes. “An hour with a pair of pruning shears, and those could be beautiful again.”

Despite the stranger's threatening appearance, his polite manner began to put her at ease. He could have knocked down the door with one thrust of those powerful shoulders, and seized her with those strong hands, and yet he had not. She was certain that if she asked him to leave, he would comply without argument.

But her curiosity grew stronger. It was dawning on her that something about him seemed oddly familiar. His unusual height, for one thing. Long ago, hadn't she encountered someone as tall? And that untrimmed fair hair, falling out of its queue with burrs and twigs sticking out of it like a bird’s nest. Hadn't she seen hair like that before, set on fire by the setting sun?

She frowned, trying to place the memory. “I'm sorry, but…” she began, about to explain that she and her father could not afford hired help, even if willing to take a chance on a stranger who arrived unannounced on their doorstep.

“I'm strong.” He cut in, exhaustion shadowing the dark-blue eyes. “I have yet to see anyone labor as hard as I can. You will be satisfied, Miss, if you only let me try.”

She looked at him more closely, her eyes flicking again across his filthy clothes and his desperate face, what she could see of it under the growth of golden beard. His height. The overly courteous way he spoke, contrasting with his desperate air. The golden hair.
A dock in Plymouth. A pickle barrel. A chestnut vendor.

“You!” she exclaimed.

It was his turn to stare. Then his eyes fell on her auburn hair, and a look of puzzled recognition crossed his face. “I….”

“The
Absalom
,” she interrupted excitedly. “The two detectives. It was you they were chasing!”

The years fell away again, and for a moment she was standing on the pier at Plymouth breathing in the tang of salt air. She remembered being knocked over by the fleeing fugitive, the impulse that caused her to save him, the gratitude on his face when he realized she would not betray him. She had searched for him later on the ship, but he disappeared below decks. That friendly Englishwoman, Mrs. Parker had spoken of him frequently, however. The last time Abigail had seen him was when some impulse had caused her to run across the dock at Providence to bid him farewell.

Since then, she had thought of the English fugitive several times, secretly and rather unfairly measuring short, portly Benjamin Pinckney’s physique against that of the dashing, mysterious Englishman. But the memory dimmed over the past year or so as she had never expected to see him again, and certainly not here on her doorstep!

“Your friend from the ship, Mrs. Parker, sent me,” the stranger explained, and without warning, his knees buckled. Before he crashed to the ground, she managed to dive forward and prop him up in an awkward, unplanned embrace.

Instead of fleeing to safety, as he so easily could, she thought, this man had stopped to make sure she was unhurt, allowing his pursuers to nearly capture him. It was an act of gallantry that had sent a thrill through her whenever she thought of it. Mrs. Parker had often mentioned him during their strolls around the deck of the Patience, as well. The old woman must have fallen under his spell as well, and Abigail had listened with unhidden interest.
What was his name? Tom. Tom something. Tom West.
To think she remembered his name after all this time!

He had changed, she noted, as Tom staggered back to his feet, his cheeks flaming red with embarrassment. His shoulders were even broader, his arms thicker. Now he had the body of a man, not a boy. But in spite of his musculature, she couldn't help noticing that his collar bones protruded under the loose-fitting shirt and that the sockets of his eyes and his high cheeks were hollow. Life had not been kind to Tom West.

"I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “I did not mean to…."

“We cannot afford to hire you. But you can rest for a while and have a meal before you go.” She would not humiliate him by referring to his faint.

He straightened to his full height. “I'm not begging," he said, looking down at her haughtily. "I am merely seeking employment.”

“Of course.” Leaving the door open, she started toward the kitchen without waiting to see if he followed. Cromwell trotted alongside, wagging his whip-like tail, having already accepted the stranger as part of the household. “We have plenty of food in the larder, and there's no need to let it go to waste.”

*     *     *

Abigail watched Tom West bury himself in the food she'd heaped before him. Her father was in his library with the door closed, so was no need to worry about what he would say. Not yet, anyway. The meal was simple enough—bread, butter, and a slice of left-over tongue—but the newcomer seemed to consider it a feast. She was surprised to see that he ate neatly, almost fastidiously, in spite of his obvious hunger and he refused a second helping, although his eyes followed the platter when she removed it. At that moment, she decided she was not about to let him leave without trying to help him.

“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.”