The Gardener (24 page)

Other girls have thrown themselves at you, just like this. Shamelessly. Obviously they have. And I am just one more.

His eyes slid away again, avoiding hers. She slowly curdled in humiliation, but it was too late to retract her statement. There was only one way to lift the mood.

“Perhaps you have broken many ladies’ hearts in your day,” she said, with an attempt at her usual humor. “But at least none of them managed to trap you. That means I’m in fine company, does it not?”

But the poor attempt at a joke fell flat. Suddenly Tom looked older, sadder, and new lines appeared by his mouth. Immediately, Abigail realized what she had done, and for once, she was struck speechless. Then another emotion swept over her, an ugly, unworthy one, which she had never felt before. Jealousy. The sensation was so powerful and destructive that for an instant she felt that if the other young lady had been there, she would have clawed her eyes out. So someone
had
managed to pierce Tom's seemingly impenetrable barrier after all! Abigail’s envy burned deeper into her psyche as she tried to imagine what the young lady looked like. The wench must be indescribably beautiful, infinitely charming, to have won Tom’s lasting love.

Then, with effort, Abigail thrust the unworthy feeling aside. With the sense that she was crossing further into dangerous territory, knowing that she’d be thoroughly ashamed of herself later, she forged onward, impelled by curiosity and hurt pride.

“You are m...married then?” She stumbled over the word. “Where is your wife, then?”

“She died. Our firstborn child with her.”

Abigail looked away, hating herself for having pried open that wound. It explained everything. She had guessed there was something in his past, something painful, but never imagined it was this. If only she could have comforted him, but his chiseled features looked as cold as those on one of the marble statues in Lord Marlowe's gallery at Blackgrave Manor, and she knew had already gone too far.

Tom reached past her for the axe. “If you have nothing else to ask, Miss...?”

She stood her ground, chin high, shoulders squared. “My offer still stands. I shall go west with you, as a housekeeper, a traveling companion, or ... well ... in any capacity you wish.”

Even as her nails dug into her palms, she silently dared him to reject her.

There was the slightest pause imaginable.

Then, “I suppose it will have to be as a wife,” he said, climbing the stepstool without looking at her. “I imagine your father will not approve otherwise.”

Abigail let out a long breath and then, before he could take back the words, hurried back into the house to tell her father the news.

Chapter Eighteen

To Abigail's relief, Miles Woodbury appeared happy to hear of the betrothal. Since overcoming his first suspicions of Tom West, he had never made a secret of his liking for the tall newcomer, and Abigail wondered if he had nursed a secret hope that the two would end up together.

If you only knew
, she thought. Her father would be appalled at the way she had thrown herself at Tom.

“West is a fine man,” he had told her warmly, after Tom had formally asked for her hand, and then retreated to his room. “A perfect gentleman, in the truest sense of the word, whatever his background may be.”

Something in her father’s words made her look at him sharply. Then, she followed his glance to his desk, where a newspaper lay open. She snatched it up and found one of the columns of small print had been circled. “Escaped Indentured Servant,” she read aloud. “About six foot four inches, powerfully built, known to be violent. Reward offered.”

Her horrified eyes met her father’s, and he nodded. “Some strangers have been seen in Cambridge making inquiries. Fortunately, no one appears to have revealed his presence yet. Perhaps the neighbors have kept silent out of loyalty to us, or perhaps simply because they have benefited from his labor.”

“Still, it is only a matter of time,” she said quietly.

“I suggested to Tom that he should leave as soon as possible, and it appears he had the same idea. It is wise that you chose to marry quickly, child.”

She swallowed. “Papa, you do not think I'm taking a risk...?”

He removed his spectacles and regarded her warmly. “Of course you are. What marriage doesn’t involve risk? Your mother lost everything by marrying me. I hadn't a penny to my name, and her parents cast her out, but we were happy nonetheless. And you will be too, I’m sure of it. Tom’s a fine man, finer perhaps than he knows.”

With a little sob, she buried her face in his shoulder as she had done when she was a little girl. She wanted to memorize his scent, the rough feel of his coat against her cheek, the strength of arms encircling her.

*     *     *

The preparations for their departure took more time than those for the wedding. To Tom's annoyance, Abigail insisted on coming to watch as he picked out his plow horses, two big dappled grays and a spare, a black with a long mane and a white blaze down its nose. When he asked the ostler to saddle the black, the ostler raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Why not? You’ll want to try ’em out, naturally. They’re as good for riding as for plowing.”

With a quick frowning glance at Abigail, Tom hesitated before attempting to mount. It took him two attempts, and the ostler peered up at him with surprise as Tom grabbed the reins and steadied himself in the seat.

“You got no experience riding, sir?”

“I've been on a horse's back before, but the circumstances were … er … different," Tom muttered. He thought of his seven years living in the stable above the animals and two more years riding behind them as a footman. The only time he had sat on one of their backs was the day he had rescued Jonathan and Maeve Marlowe from their runaways, the day that had changed his life. The fact that he had managed to leap on and cling to the galloping animal seemed more impossible than ever. Only sheer luck and desperation had permitted it. Hopefully those qualities would allow him to succeed in the wilderness where he was headed.

“I expect I shall have more time in the saddle now that I have my own horses,” he said, patting the black's strong neck, and felt pride course through his veins as he struggled to appear comfortable on horseback. He, Tom West, was now the owner of three strong horses, finer than the two he had bought while working for Mr. Radstone near Providence. Who’d have thought he'd have come so far, after falling so low? Perhaps his luck had finally changed, in spite of the fact that once again, he was being saddled with a wife against his wishes.

“You picked well,” the ostler commented, nodding. “Dickie, Minerva, and Blackie are used to pullin’ carts, but they can to do whatever you need: plowing, hauling logs…. Some might think them too big for riding, but that there black fits you fine. Gentle and obedient, too, all of ’em.”

Tom nodded, patting the horse's warm withers, still trying to sit upright as he had seen other riders do. He had come this close to achieving his goal before, and fate had intruded at the last moment, dashing his plans. This time he would allow nothing to stop him.
Nothing.
Not even Abigail Woodbury. His grip tightened on the reins.

*     *     *

Abigail bit back a smile at the sight of Tom trying to look at ease on the horse, despite sweat beading on his brow and his hands gripping the reins tightly. The ostler was right: under any other man, the big plow horse would have looked outsized, but under Tom, it looked just right.

“Don't worry, the riding will come eventually,” the man remarked when Tom slid off, looking relieved to find himself back on the ground again.

The two men moved away to discuss terms, and Abigail emerged from the shadows. “Hello, Dickie. Hello, Minerva.” The horses swung their strong necks to look at her, and she reached up to pat their coarse manes. Like Tom, she’d been around horses her whole life, but she had never ridden, not even in one of the awkward side saddles women were expected to use for modesty’s sake.

Surely the wife of a farmer ought to ride? Hoisting her skirts and petticoats, Abigail put a foot in the stirrup and tried to throw her other leg over the horse’s broad back. Minerva shifted, and Abigail lost her balance. She ended up sitting in the none-too-fragrant straw with wounded dignity, glad that no one had witnessed her graceless dismount. Fortunately her multiple petticoats padded her fall. Mumbling under her breath, she got unsteadily to her feet and tried again.

This time, Minerva was expecting her and stood patiently. Abigail launched herself upward again and managed to sprawl across the saddle, clutching the mane and, no doubt, displaying an excess of stockinged leg to anyone who happened to enter at that moment. Pulling herself to sitting position, she settled herself in the saddle with a sense of pride. So this is what it felt like to sit so high and look down on the world! She felt powerful, like the captain of a ship.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Minerva, startled, took two steps sideways, but Abigail grabbed the saddle. Tom’s broad shoulders filled the doorway, afternoon sun glinting off his hair like burnished gold. As usual, he had forgotten his hat somewhere and was bareheaded. His face was glowering.

“If you’re learning to ride,” she said defensively, tightening her grip on the reins, “Why shouldn’t I?”

“These are my horses, not yours. I bought and paid for them myself.”

“Aren’t they ….” She swallowed. “Aren’t they going to be ours, Tom?” A mistake. He did not want her coming with him, and Abigail belatedly realized her words would merely remind him of that fact. “I thought I’d be of more use if I could ride,” she said quickly. “In case of accident or unforeseen events. I don't want to be a burden.”

The ostler leaned casually against the wall, chewing a stalk of hay. “I see no harm in it myself,” he said, chuckling. “Where you’re going, mister, the more she can do the better. From what I hear, it ain’t no stroll across the commons, the other side of the Appalachians.”

Tom flung him an annoyed look, and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

“Less you’re afraid the lady’ll ride better than you?” The ostler snickered. “If that’s the case….”

Tom stiffened. “It doesn’t matter in the least to me,” he said with the arrogant air that had misled Abigail to think he was a nobleman, “as long as she doesn’t damage the horseflesh.” He stalked out of the stable, and the ostler threw down his half-chewed straw and ambled over.

“Here, Missy, I'll show you. Ain’t much to it, not with a tractable horse like this. To make her go forward, just dig in your heels and say “Git”— that’s right—and to make her stop, say “Whoa” and pull back on the reins. To turn right or left, just lay your reins across the side of her neck, like this, and she’ll know what to do….”

Abigail followed the directions, and when the ostler took her outside and let her ride around the yard for a while, she began to feel, if not confident, at least less unsure of herself.

At dinner, feeling the effects of riding in unfamiliar muscles, she told her father what she had done.

“Your mother was an accomplished horsewoman,” Miles Woodbury said approvingly, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Pity we did not give you more opportunity to learn.”

“When did I need to ride around Cambridge, when I could walk everywhere?”  Nevertheless Abigail's eyes sparkled. “It was only a slow plow horse, Papa, but even so, I felt so—strong. As if I could make it go anywhere I wanted, do anything I pleased! I have never known anything like that feeling of control.”

              “Be careful, daughter.” Her father reached across the table and took her hand, his brown eyes growing concerned. “Tom is not a man who takes to being led by another, especially not a woman.”

              “Don't be silly, Papa!.” She tried to forget the flash of anger cross Tom’s face when he’d seen her on the horse. “We are talking about horses.”

              “Are we? Men are funny creatures, Abby. If you’re to be a good wife, you'll need to remember that.”

Later, her father presented her with the big, leather Bible from which she’d read to him so many times and which contained their family lineage written in careful lists down the blank pages in front. “To remind you who you are," he said, "and where we come from, my dear. Pass this down to your children so they'll not forget.” His hands trembled slightly as he pressed the heavy volume into her arms.

"I will, Papa. I promise." She looked down at the weathered cover. Children? She had not thought of that eventuality, but her heart skipped a beat. She had always dreamed of a large family. Was that dream about to come true as well?

Abigail waited until the last minute to tell her friends the news of her engagement. Deep inside, she feared that Tom would change his mind and leave her at the altar. At the same time, she was afraid her friends would try to dissuade her from making what they would surely consider a foolhardy act.

She was right.

Of them all, Sarah was the most persistent in trying to change her decision. “My dear, are you
insane
?” she exclaimed, as Abigail silently folded her clothes and pack them in the trunk at the foot of the big four-poster bed.  “It is not as if you haven't spurned three perfectly acceptable proposals already.” Sarah grasped Abigail's hands and forced her to turn toward her. “Really, now, what does this man have that the others did not?” After a brief pause, she added wryly, “I mean, besides
that
.”

Abigail’s irritation dissipated like a puff of smoke, and she fought back a smile. Only Sarah could bring laughter to a moment which should have been marked by drama and high passion.

“Well, there is
that
, of course," she admitted. "I'd be lying if I denied it. But I hope you do not think I am such a fool that I would throw everything away for a pair of blue eyes and strong shoulders.”

“Well then, why
are
you marrying him?”

Abigail struggled to find the right words. How had Tom West captured her heart from the moment she had seen him on the dock at Plymouth? Had his good looks and air of mystery driven her to insanity? No, deep inside she sensed something reassuring about him. Something solid, and protective, and capable, and
good
. Look how Tom had worked so hard to fix up the house, not because he had been forced to but because he liked order and neatness. Look how he sacrificed his evenings, to make her father happy by discussing the topics that meant so much to the former professor. Look how hard he had worked to educate himself, to match his intellect to that of other men the Woodburys associated with. Moreover, she felt safe, secure, in his presence.

Most of all, without realizing it, she had caught Tom's dream.

“If I explained, you still wouldn’t understand.” Abigail pulled her hands away from Sarah's and turned back to packing.

Most of her possessions would be left behind. Tom had made it clear there was not room in the wagon for anything but the essentials. So her morning dresses and evening gown would stay, reminders of a life that she was leaving forever. She was only taking a few treasures that fit into the single trunk: a few favorite books, work dresses, a handkerchief that had belonged to her mother, and the family Bible.

Sarah's wry voice soon brought Abigail back to the moment.

“Dearest, admit the truth. I have seen your Tom. His face would make even a married woman swoon. I love my husband dearly, but my Richard is no Adonis.”

“I told you, that's not why—” Abigail began again, flushing.

“But just because this fellow has swept you off your feet doesn't mean you must allow him to talk you into taking this foolish trip.”

“He did not talk me into anything.” Abigail's voice held a warning.

“No? There are so many reasons not to pursue your insane actions that I do not know where to begin. You have no idea how Cambridge is buzzing, my dear, or you would not even consider it! My Nathaniel is such a Puritan he forbade me to come here—
commanded
me to have nothing further to do with you! But nothing could keep me away. I care too much about you to allow you to do this. Marrying our hired handyman! My dear, we hardly live in the backwoods!”