The Gardener (7 page)

Chapter Seven

A splitting pain in Tom's head awoke him. For a moment he lay gazing up at an unfamiliar low wooden ceiling that swayed from side to side, wondering where he was. Then gradually he realized he could not move his arms. They appeared to have been secured behind him with some type of cording. A sudden sickening lurch and a clicking of hooves against cobblestones told him he was in some sort of conveyance. An enclosed wagon.

He thought at first he was dreaming. Soon Campbell would be shaking him out of bed to light the fires. Then he remembered the gold-handled cane striking his temple, and, less clearly, the thrashing that had followed by several of the other footmen. His body throbbed from head to foot, and he tasted blood in his mouth.

The wagon hit a bump, causing his head to bang against the floor, redoubling the pain. He cursed as the memories returned. There was no mystery about his destination, he realized. He was being transported to gaol, and soon, after a hasty trial, he'd be led to the gallows, as Lord Marlowe had vowed.

Tom did not consider for a moment the possibility that a kindly judge would find him innocent. No one would take the word of a mere servant against that of a nobleman, or a nobleman's daughter.

He wondered who had betrayed him. Some unknown enemy among the servants, perhaps, who had made a lucky guess as to why he had been called to Maeve's bedroom, hoped to use it against him? If so, the plan had paid off handsomely.

Bitterly, he remembered Lemley's warning to stay away from the Marlowes. He had not heeded it, and now he was paying the consequences.

Looking down, he saw he had been stripped of his satin jacket and that he had lost his wig in the beating. His head throbbed, his bones ached, and a few teeth felt loose. Lost in dark thoughts, he barely noticed the wagon lurch to a stop until a stocky constable threw open the doors.

“Awake, then, are ye?” The policeman bundled him out and a doorway that led into dark corridor lined with cells. A foul odor turned his stomach.

Fitting a key in the last iron-barred door, the constable placed a beefy palm on Tom's back and shoved, hard. “Maybe you'll manage to stay out of trouble 'ere, eh?” He laughed as the door clanged shut.

With his hands tied behind his back, Tom was unable to break his fall.
is
His cheek hit the flagstone floor, unleashing a burst of raucous laughter from the dark recesses of the cell.

The policeman's key rattled noisily in the metal door, and footsteps echoed back down the hallway.

“God love me if it ain't one of the bloody 'ouse of Lords! Look at them fancy rags!” A boot tested Tom's newly bruised ribs. He had been about to push himself to his feet. Now he decided it would be prudent to remain where he was: prone on a hard, cold floor that reeked of urine.

“
Knee
breeches, by all that's holy!” said another voice. Rough hands pulled at his boots. “An' fine new Hessians. Look at that shiny leather! Do you suppose they'd fit me, Jake?”

“Leave them be, fools,” said a third voice. It was smoother than the others, and more thoughtful. “Those boots will do neither of you good where you're going. Besides—” a slight pause—”the fellow might prove useful to us.”

“Useful?”

“’E's dressed like a gentleman, isn't he? Who knows but what ’e might have powerful friends?”

“If 'e 'ad powerful friends, 'e'd hardly be
here
, would 'e?” sneered the first voice.

'Oh, he'll prove useful enough. He'll balance the gibbet,” said the second at the same time, and the laughter burst out again.

But the tugging stopped, and Tom felt it safe to open an eye. As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he saw two ruffians looking down at him, greasy, untrimmed hair falling across their faces.

A third man sat on a ledge jutting out from a wall. He was older than the others, and his clothes appeared of better cut. His thinning brown hair was secured by a limp ribbon, while artificially enlarged eyes studied him through thick wire-rimmed spectacles. The shrewd intensity of the gaze made Tom suddenly self-conscious.

He struggled to his knees, a difficult feat with his arms tied behind his back. The constable had failed to release the bonds, and by now he had lost nearly all sensation in his wrists.

“So—” The middle-aged man removed his spectacles and began polishing them on the front of his shirt. “What are you here for, mate? You seem a cut above the usual lot who pass within these walls.”

Tom turned his head away. He had no desire to consort with criminals, even had he wished to relate the events that had brought him here. There was no way to tell the story without looking a fool, even to himself. How easily he had played into Miss Marlowe's scheme! he thought bitterly. If only he had defied her, or stormed from the room, as a
real
man would have done. But he had proven himself to be what Miss Maeve expected: a trained monkey, good only to do others’ bidding.

Then the flame of rebellion flared again in his belly.
Never again.
Never again would he let another man or woman dictate his actions, he swore, as rage filled every vein of his sore, aching body, giving him strength. If by some miracle he were freed from prison, never again would he blindly obey anyone.
Never.
Even if his last act was to defy the hangman, he would fight until breath left his body!

“'Ain't the talkative type, it appears,” said the first man, a broad-shouldered thug with a thatch of hair as thick as an otter's pelt. “No matter, I 'eard the guards talking through the door before the wagon arrived. This fellow's no gentleman, e's a servant. 'Ad an eye for his master's daughter, they said.” He laughed and spat, adding some details as vulgar as they were false.

“Is that so?” the older man said mildly. He settled his glasses onto the bridge of his hooked nose and studied the newcomer again with interest.

Ignoring them, Tom crawled to the nearest corner and propped himself against the wall. The cool stone felt good against his aching back, although the reference to the gibbet made him feel more wretched than ever, reminding him of his hopeless position.

His comrades at the manor would never know the truth, he thought. Blodgett would never allow the real story to come out. Miss Marlowe would be kept out of any version of the tale. No doubt they would accuse him of stealing silver, or some other petty crime: a few spoons missing from the butler's pantry would answer any questions about his disappearance. After a few days of speculation, Tom would be forgotten, just like the long-departed Jenkins had been forgotten, and life at Blackrock Manor would continue as usual.

Of course, Lemley would miss him. And maybe …. Jenny's face swam into view, her soft lips parted in a warm smile. His gut twisted with longing. Surely
she
would miss him.
She
would wonder what had happened. Perhaps his absence would cause her to  realize the depth of her feelings for him.

Although by then, of course, it would be too late. He remembered the gibbet, and shuddered.

During the next few hours, the ruffians lobbed questions at him, but when Tom sullenly refused to respond, they lost interest. He did not move from his corner until the small, barred window grew dark. Shortly after, a key scraped in the lock, and a wizened warden with a scarred face came in with a tray.

The man tut-tutted at Tom's swollen arms, shaking his head at the constable's forgetfulness, and sawed through the bonds with a dull knife. Tom rubbed his wrists as the rope fell away. The pain of the blood throbbing back into his hands after hours of numbness felt almost unbearable. Only after the pain had lessened did hunger assert itself, and he wondered how many hours had passed since his last meal.

Then he looked at the food on the tray the gaoler had left, and his appetite left him. Bits of gristle and vegetable tops floated on top of some kind of watery soup, causing his stomach to revolt. The others gobbled down the mess with relish, but Tom pushed his own bowl away as a vision of yesterday's fabulous pre-wedding feast floating through his mind: roast chicken dripping with fat; hot puddings; boiled lobster glistening with drawn butter; tender beef seeping savory juices through a golden, flaky crust; and of course the fish ....

With difficulty, he swallowed. His mouth felt as if it were stuffed with cotton wool, and he tasted the bitter tang of dried blood.

“Eat,” counseled the bespectacled man, looking up from his bowl. “You'll need your strength.”

“Why?” It was the first word he had spoken all day, and all his despair and bitterness gushed out in the single croaked syllable. “After all, I'm only to 'balance the gibbet.'”

The older man took a bite of black bread and winked in a friendly manner. “I'm a philosopher, young fellow: no one knows what the future will bring. History is full of prisoners who went on to greatness. Think of Daniel in the lion's den, Saint Peter in chains, Joseph in Potiphar's prison....”

“You're hardly the likes of any of those,” Tom snarled. The last reference had cut too close to home, and not in his favor. The Biblical Joseph had not stood paralyzed like a gibbering idiot while Potiphar's wife made a fool of him! Tom remembered his new vow, and repeated it silently. Never again would he willingly grant a man—or a woman—power over him.

Then his head drooped. The vow was meaningless. He would never know freedom until the rope dropped around his neck.

The other man shrugged, and nudged the tray with the remainder of the food toward him. “'Twill be a long time before breakfast.”

Tom looked at his benefactor suspiciously.
Then, hunger finally overwhelmed him, and he snatched a crust and devoured it. Although stale, it made him feel slightly better. He left the watery soup with an expression of disgust, however, and one of the other men immediately snatched the dish and drank it up with a cackle.

After the warden had removed the empty tray, Tom surveyed his cellmates with new curiosity. The older man seemed an ally. Hard-bitten though the two other men appeared, Tom was stronger, more fit, and nearly twice their size. Experimentally, he flexed his muscles, and in response, they both moved back a step. “What are you lot here for?”

“Feeling more sociable now, are you?” The bespectacled man made an exaggerated bow. “Isaac Harris, cut-purse
extraordinaire
, that is until my career came to a sudden end, the details of which need not concern you. These gentlemen, Marty and Jake, are my cohorts. None are more skilled at creating a diversion in a crowd while I ply my trade, I assure you. Sadly, the world will be far less interesting when they leave it.” He paused delicately. “If I may be so bold, what are
you
up for, my lad?”

“It's no matter. I'm innocent,” he muttered.

“So are we.” Isaac nodded. “Along with most of those held against their will within these walls, if one is to believe their accounts. Unfortunately, your trial will likely be as swift as ours, and no doubt as unjust in its outcome.” The others grunted assent.

Tom sank back in despair.

*     *     *

Tom's spirits remained low the next few days as he awaited his fate. Stubbornly he refused to respond to Isaac's attempts at conversation, but his silence merely encouraged the cutpurse to launch into long monologues of past adventures interspersed with quotations from obscure poets and philosophers. Tom did not understand half his bespectacled companion’s ramblings, but he found them surprisingly diverting nonetheless.

“It's a pity about the injustice done to you, my lad,” Isaac said at last, shaking his head while lighting his odiferous pipe. Tom wondered where his cell mate obtained the seemingly inexhaustible supply of tobacco. “In a better world, a comely young man of your intelligence could achieve the success he so obviously deserves. Only in the democracy of the dead, all men at last are equals.”

In his corner, Tom stirred.

The older man winked. “Alas, those last words are not mine, but those of the immortal bard.” Seeing Tom's blank expression, Isaac removed his pipe from his mouth. “Shakespeare," he explained. "You've heard of him, I hope?”

Tom slumped back without answering. How had such an educated man come to be incarcerated in these walls? Better not to ask, he thought. After all, Isaac had not inquired again about his own past. Professional courtesy, perhaps.

The older man's charm made up for his companions' lack of it. Tom never learned to tell Marty and Jake apart. They might have been identical twins, although one was slightly shorter and stouter, and the other darker. Their faces were equally hard, their speech equally rough.

After the first day, fortunately, the two ruffians left him alone. Although they still occasionally eyed his boots covetously, all he had to do was flex his muscles again and they retreated like rats from a growling mastiff. Tom suspected that Isaac had forbidden them to try, for they could easily have overpowered him while he slept. He was glad, because he kept his guinea in the toe of his boots. Fat lot of good it would do him now, he thought sourly.

In spite of Isaac's conversation, the hours dragged slowly, interrupted only when the aging pickpocket restocked his supply of tobacco once a day through the cell's grated window. When the rays of sunshine lay at the same angle across the floor in late afternoon, they heard footsteps approach on the cobblestones, and Isaac would cross to the window, reaching up and retiring to his cot with a fresh twist of tobacco and a pleased expression. Tom wondered idly who his benefactor was.