The Gardener (21 page)

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 picking 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.

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
o
f 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.”