The Gardener (6 page)

“It was you!” she said suddenly in her high-pitched voice. “You're the gardener who stopped the horses, aren't you?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, miss.”

She clapped her hands. “I knew it! What luck that you were the one to serve us tonight. If not for the fish, I shouldn't have recognized you.” She sashayed away, in the direction from which she had come.

Tom was speechless. He had nearly ruined her engagement dinner, and she did not seem to mind! Mopping the sweat from his brow, he galloped downstairs to his quarters. He was splashing water on his face when Campbell appeared in the doorway wearing a quizzical look.

“You're wanted.” The other footman jerked a thumb toward the ceiling.

Still dripping, Tom glowered upward. “Whatever it is, can't one of the parlor maids handle it?”

“Apparently not. Miss Marlowe requested your services specifically.” Campbell remained expressionless, but his deep-set gray eyes looked speculative.

Cursing under his breath, Tom jerked his wig back on over his close-cropped hair, shrugged into his blue livery jacket, and fastened the gold buttons. Straightening his wig, he headed toward the stairs.

Before stepping through the tall, carved doors that led to Miss Marlowe's chambers, he hesitated again. The sense of unease, which had troubled him all evening, grew stronger. He yearned to turn and leave. But of course, he could not.

The ornate antechamber led to Maeve's sleeping quarters, which he had never seen. Passing through the final set of doors, he had an impression of extravagantly curved chairs and of heavy dark-red curtains hanging from massive mahogany bed posts. Miss Marlowe was reclining on a chaise longue in a carefully arranged pose, hands folded in her lap, as she watched him enter.

“Those paintings over there.” She raised a languid arm to point, disarranging the folds of her green dressing gown, which coiled about her like a serpent. “I am not satisfied with their arrangement. Please switch them.”

Two large paintings flanked the bed. One pictured a nymph with mounds of pink flesh looking coquettishly over her shoulder, while in the other a girl with ropes of golden hair simpered while reclining on a divan. He lifted the first painting off the wall and nearly staggered under the weight. The ornate, gilded frame was surprisingly heavy. So that was why Miss Marlowe had not called a housemaid, he thought. Of course that did not answer the question of why the trivial task could not have waited until daylight.

As he carried the painting to the other side, he grew uncomfortably aware of Miss Marlowe's close-set eyes watching his every move. When the two pieces of art were hung again, he could hardly tell the difference. It was of no significance to him how she chose to arrange her room, however. He waited impatiently to be dismissed.

“Perfect! That's much more to my satisfaction,” Miss Marlowe said without looking at the paintings, and with one swift movement she rose and approached him, putting a hand on his forearm. He almost jumped. Her cold touch felt like that of a reptile.               “You do know that I'm to marry soon, do you not?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.

He hid his surprise at the change of topic. "Yes, Miss Marlowe. Of course."

"Lord Corbus is rich and powerful. When he goes into politics, protecting the rights of sugar plantation owners to transport slaves, he will undoubtedly rise to national importance.”

Her sickly perfume surrounded him like a net. Her lips parted and her strange, dark-rimmed eyes glittered. With a sinking heart, he hoped he was wrong about the meaning of her hand's pressure on his arm. In any other woman, he would have recognized the signs, but he could not bring himself to believe this was happening. Not from
her
.

“Yes, Miss Marlowe.” To his own ears, his voice sounded strangled. It took all his effort not to throw off her clutching fingers.

She moved closer until her satin dressing gown brushed his calves. “But you know all that, don't you? Mother tells me that the servants know everything before we do.”

He remained silent.

She laughed, as if sensing his discomfort. “Don't worry. You have a right to be in my chamber. After all, I called you here, didn't I?”

“Yes, Miss.” Now that the first shock was over, he relaxed slightly. Despite her rank, Maeve Marlowe was no different than any other woman, he realized. How many times had he seen that look in their eyes? Such attention was harmless, flattering, even enjoyable, if one wanted to play the game.

Then reality came crashing down.
No. Not harmless. Not in this case.

She appeared unaware of the stiffening muscles under his sleeve. “Perhaps you suspected why I called you here tonight.” She looked up at him through her thin, pale lashes in what she must have thought was a seductive look. “Surely I do not have to spell it out.”

“Yes, Miss. The paintings.” Despite her unexpectedly strong grip, he knew could easily pull away, be through the door in an instant. But a lifetime of knowing his place stood in his way: a servant must not leave without being dismissed. Defying a command from a superior went against everything that had been ingrained in him since birth, even if he hadn't run the risk of being sacked if he refused to obey. Moreover, in these hard times he would never find employment without a reference. He might literally starve, as so many did outside those towering hedges.

She ignored his response. “My fiancé is fifty years old.” She moved closer. He could feel her hot breath on his chest. “In the prime of life, my father assures me. He says I am fortunate.”

“Yes, Miss.” It growing difficult to breathe, and it took all his effort not to take a step back. He glanced longingly at the door that led to freedom.

“Well, I'm
not
fortunate!” Suddenly her cheeks flushed, and her voice hardened. “I had no choice in the matter. No choice whatsoever. Why, I have no more freedom to decide my own future than a … than an African slave!”

Her hand clenched, and to his surprise, he felt pity for her. It was common for a lady of her class to have a marriage arranged without consulting her wishes. It must be hard for a passionate young woman to be tied to an older man she did not care for, he thought, looking at her tear-filled eyes and heaving bosom. She must feel nearly as powerless as....

As
he
did.

Tom's senses snapped into place, and a sudden rage rushed through his veins. It was a feeling that he had never experienced before, a silent, inner rebellion as impossible to hold back as a tidal wave. He looked down at her with disgust. Maeve Marlowe thought she could command him to do something he found repugnant, not caring about his feelings about the matter, never even considering that he might refuse. Why shouldn't she? She, and those like her, dominated everything he did, from when he rose in the morning, to what he wore, to how he filled every hour of the day until he went to sleep—and even then, they could call him from his slumber on a whim.

The rush of resentment was raw, overwhelming, causing him to tremble. For a moment, he had to clench his fists to prevent himself from shoving her aside.

But she did not sense the change in him. Instead, she pressed closer, her body touching his. “I shall be faithful to him after we are wed, of course,” she murmured. “But I deserve one hour of pleasure before then. Is that too much to ask?”

Any trace of sympathy vanished as he realized that her words were not addressed not to him, but to herself. His wishes, his desires were irrelevant, he thought bitterly. To her, to all of her class, he was nothing but an object, a possession. Because of his position, he was powerless to move as she ran her hand up his arm like a trader assessing horseflesh.

‘…One hour with the tallest, best-looking man in my father's retinue,” she whispered. “It would be an experience to remember for a lifetime.” Her mouth tightened, and her fingernails dug painfully into his flesh. “Who could deny me that right?”

Despite his disgust, Tom was sickeningly aware of the precariousness of his position. To incur Maeve Marlowe's displeasure was to risk everything. Yet if anyone heard about this.... If the slightest hint of it came to Blodgett's ears, or, God forbid, to Lord Marlowe's….

He sneaked another glance at the doorway. If he could find the right words to satisfy her vanity, that would buy him time to make his escape....

But Miss Marlowe had finished speaking. She raised her face, closed her eyes, and pursed her rouged lips, expecting unquestioning compliance.

“
Never!
“ The word exploded out of him, shocking him as much as her. He pushed aside her clinging arms. The unexpected move caused her to stumble backward, toward the bed, and instinctively, she clutched his shoulders to avoid falling. Her weight caught him off balance, and he collapsed heavily on top of her.

Misinterpreting the action, she giggled and pulled at his waistcoat. Again, her grip was unexpectedly strong. The threads ripped, and he heard the gold buttons
ping
against the floor.

Dimly he was aware of a drumming sound in the distance, while he protested like a character in a French farce. “No, Miss Marlowe, I cannot ....We must not ....”

Her black eyes suddenly narrowed and she slapped him smartly, with such force that his head snapped back. At almost the same time, rough hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him to his feet like a fish on a line.

“Scoundrel! Rotgut! Knave!” The deep bellow belonged to Lord Marlowe. “How dare you lay your filthy hands on my daughter? I shall see you hang for this!”

“He attacked me! Take him!” Miss Marlowe cried, and fell limply back on the bed, her eyes fluttering shut.

Tom risked a glance behind to see who was holding him while Lord Marlowe, purple with rage, brandished his walking stick in his face. It was Campbell, his rugged face a stony mask, his grip like iron.

“Is this the reward I get for taking a got-wobbled under-gardener into my household?” Lord Marlowe screamed. “I vow I shall see him swing from a gibbet before the week's out! Hold him well, Campbell!”

Before Tom could utter a word, the gold-handled stick crashed down, and the lights in the room went out.

Chapter Six

Abigail privately thought that Maeve Marlowe's wedding could not be said to have been a success. Jonathan, seeming startled out of his usual state of sleepy good-humor, dropped his humorous pretense at wooing her and excused himself several times to go to his sister's side. Once, when passing down the hallway that led past Maeve's room, Abigail thought she heard muffled weeping.

On the day of the happy event, the bride seemed wan and distracted, and when the vicar asked her for her vows, she had to be prodded before responding. Even then, she looked up and said, blankly, “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

The father of the bride looked tense as well. Lord Marlowe's puffy face was an unnatural, raw-beef shade of red, and his gold-handled cane sported a fresh dent in it. The festivities that followed seemed forced, and when the couple left abruptly for their new home in the West Indies, Abigail had hardly a chance to wish them farewell.

Miles Woodbury decided to cut short their visit, and their hosts did not press them to stay. On the bright side, Abigail thought as Lady Marlowe's lady's maid arranged her hair on their last morning at Blackgrave Manor, she had come to a decision not to marry dour, practical Benjamin Pinckney. Who cared if he published one of the best newspapers in Boston?

She winced as the maid pulled a lock of hair a tad too vigorously. Startled out of her reverie, she looked with surprise into the dressing table mirror. The maid was a beauty, possibly the prettiest girl she had ever seen: porcelain-skinned, with curls of golden hair escaping from under her mobcap, and slender, agile fingers that transformed Abigail's unruly locks into a coiffure that would satisfy even a noblewoman. Her scalp ached from the pulling, but peering into the mirror, she had to admit the result was worth it.

“Well done, Jenny,” she said and swiveled to smile at the girl. “You've a gift.”

“Thank you, Miss.” The girl traced a short curtsy. Like everything the maid did, the movement was graceful and becoming, but there was no note of kindness or warmth in her tone. “Have I leave to be dismissed, Miss?”

“Of course,” Abigail said promptly. “I could have done my hair myself, you know. If Lady Marlowe hadn't insisted—” A thought occurred to her and she twisted in her seat to look at the maid again. “If you do not mind, Jenny, may I ask a question before you go?”

“Yes, Miss?” The girl folded her hands in front of her neat white apron, where they lay as still as resting birds.

“Is it my imagination, Jenny, or has something been amiss these past few days?”

The girl's eyes widened fractionally. “Whatever can you mean, Miss?”

Abigail wasn't sure herself. She waved a hand vaguely. “Ever since the night of the rehearsal dinner, it seems that everyone has been on edge.”

“There was some trouble below stairs, Ma'am. I believe a servant has been sacked.”

“Not that footman who dropped the fish, I hope?” Abigail felt distressed. She had caught a glimpse of the accident, from the corner of her eye. She had almost forgotten the event. It had been over so quickly, with such a minimum of fuss, that she had hoped, for the footman’s sake, that she was the only one who had noticed.

Jenny shrugged. “I'm sorry, Ma'am. That's all I know.”

Abigail considered talking to Lady Marlowe about the matter. It hadn't been the footman's fault, for Anatole had thrown his arm out in one of those grand gestures he had picked up from his Creole friends and knocked the platter clean out of the fellow’s grasp. But what if she only made matters worse? Lady Marlowe would not appreciate her guest interfering with the workings of her household.

And yet Abigail hated injustice. She gave Jenny a distracted nod. “Thank you, Jenny. I shall not need your services again.”

“Yes, Miss.” The girl curtsied again and withdrew.

Taking a last look at her transfigured self in the mirror, Abigail went downstairs. Jonathan had promised to take her riding her last day at Blackgrave Manor, and the weather boded to be fair. As she stepped into the stirrup with the aid of a stable boy, she wondered once again what had become of the footman who had dropped the fish.

Then Jonathan rode up on his enormous bay and, laughing, shouted, “I shall race you to the lake.” He switched his horse, and was gone.

When she caught up with him, laughing, her hair torn by the wind from the elaborate hairdo that Jenny had constructed so painfully, she had already forgotten the servant's misfortune.