The Gardener Page 4

  “Tiresome! But the gardens at Blackgrave Manor are famous! How could anyone find them tiresome?”

  His brown eyes brightened. “Would you like me to show them? I know a few private places ….”

  Before she could frame a refusal, her father appeared in the arched doorway. “Abigail! What are you doing here? We must go to our rooms to prepare for dinner.” He shot a curious look at Jonathan, who had the grace to look abashed.

  Grateful for the rescue, she took her father’s arm as they mounted the great curved staircase, but halfway up she stopped to look down. Jonathan, standing at the bottom, had the effrontery to wave at her, winking.

  She smiled before she could stop herself. She couldn’t help liking the cocky little Englishman strutting about his future domain. He appeared less stodgy than the rest of his family, and he was certainly more amusing than the stiff, awkward Benjamin Pinkney back home. But her smile faded as she realized that he was a wastrel. What a shame, she thought, for a man born to such a position to spend his life on drinking and cards. Surely there were better things one could do!

  Another footman in blue and cream livery bowed as Abigail passed into her father's and her suite of rooms. It might have been the one who had helped them out of the coach, although she could not tell. Under their horsehair wigs, the men all looked alike. Really, she thought critically, it was a good thing wigs were falling out of favor. The modern fashions, which had already penetrated to America, were much more practical, and they did not make grown men look like a set of children’s silly playthings.

  She had barely entered when a knock came at the door, and a slender maid with silver-gilt tendrils escaping from under her mobcap slipped in, bobbing a graceful curtsy.

  “Yes?” said Abigail, turning in surprise. Then she remembered that Lady Marlowe had offered to lend her own lady’s maid to help prepare for dinner. The pretty maid had already taken out her best gown and was shaking out its wrinkles.

  Abigail submitted to the girl’s expert hands, resignedly remembering one of her scholarly father's favorite quotes, Si fueris Romae, Romano vivito more: when in Rome, do as the Romans do. The last thing she wanted was to upset things on the eve of her cousin’s wedding, especially with her predilection for saying or doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Please, Lord, let things go smoothly during their stay at Blackgrave Manor! If not for her sake, for her father's.

  Chapter Four

  For months, the servants’ rooms had buzzed with gossip about how Maeve Marlowe had managed to win a titled fiancé, one who was, moreover, fabulously wealthy. Alistair Corbus owned a sugar plantation in Haiti and was bringing to visit two of his American relatives, a cousin, Miles Woodbury, and the Woodbury's spinster daughter, Abigail.

  The house turned into a hive of activity preparing for the upcoming wedding. Every pair of hands was busy airing linens, beating rugs, and dusting every surface with feather dusters and oil-treated rags. The draperies were taken down, cleaned, and re-hung, and the floors polished until they shone like mirrors. Tempers grew short, and Blodgett marched through the midst of it all barking instructions and sending maids scurrying away in tears.

  When Tom handed Miss Woodbury from the carriage, with the rest of the staff assembled on the steps before the manor house, he noted with mild curiosity that she was small, plainly dressed, with masses of auburn hair burnished by the afternoon sun. She surprised him by looking directly into his eyes and smiling as he set her on her feet.

  Then he turned to help the white-haired man who followed her out of the carriage. The third man who descended, a tall, thin man of about thirty with a high-bridged nose and sharp slanting cheekbones, was obviously the most important, as evidenced by his elaborate clothing and haughty air.

  After turning the visitors' baggage over to the attentions of Campbell, Tom turned to the duties required to help the guests settle in, hurrying through them so as to continue his search for Jenny.

  With all the preparations for the wedding, he had little time to find the beautiful lady's maid. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of her skirts whisking up the stairs on the way to the mistress's chambers, and once, while he was carrying the morning's newspaper still warm from the iron to Lord Marlowe's study, he was surprised to see her coming down the hall.

  The girl's sky-blue eyes widened as she saw him, and her steps faltered.

  “Jenny!” He felt himself break into a wide smile. “I have been hoping to find you.”

  “I’m sorry, Milady is expecting me.” She ducked into the nearest room, and the door closed in his face.

  He stared crestfallen at the solid panel. It was clear that she was avoiding him. Lady Marlowe’s quarters were not in this part of the house. Did Jenny still view him as nothing better than an unkempt gardener, then, unworthy of her notice? Why else would she have lied so obviously? His face burned.

  Scowling, he strode away, planning his next attack. Over the past months he had learned that persistence wore down even the most reluctant of maidens, and he was determined that Jenny would be next.

  Later, as he was blacking boots for Lord Marlowe and his guests, the answer came. Rosie! The tart-tongued seamstress knew more about the goings on in the household than Blodgett himself. She would know where Tom could approach Jenny, a place where they would not be interrupted. He was sure that a few minutes alone with the pretty lady’s maid would be all he needed.

  He finished his tasks as quickly as possible, then found Rosie in the servant's hall, seated in her favorite comfortable chair near the fire. While waiting for the right opportunity to approach the seamstress, he watched her swift, capable hands pull a bunch of worsted from her ever-present sewing basket and twist it into a ball as an orange tabby cat sitting nearby occasionally put out a paw to playfully pat the yarn.

  Just then, Rosie jumped and her black eyes flashed. “Cor! Cannot you let a body know when you let yourself in a room, Tom West? You creep about like a bleeding panther, for all your size.”

  “Sorry.” But he couldn't hide his smile. It was a rare feat to startle the normally unflappable seamstress.

  Red spots appeared in her cheeks. “Well, have you nothing better to do than to stand there like a bumpkin? What do you want?”

  He pulled up another chair and took the wool from her. “Here. I'll hold while you wind.” When a body wanted a favor, it was best to put the other person in a good mood first. Especially one as, ahem, thorny as Rosie.

  The flush gradually left her cheeks as they worked together in silence. Finally she looked up under straight, dark brows, her expression resigned. “Oh, all right then. Out with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don't play the innocent with me. You've become as devious and self-serving as any under this roof these past two years, and don't think I haven't noticed it.”

  Tom gazed deep into her suspicious eyes, a technique that proved effective in winning favors from parlor maids. “I have come to you for advice, Rosie. You've never bitten my head off for doing so before.”

  “Aye, although I've been well tempted. I helped you to stay on Blodgett's good side many a tie, when you’ve done something foolish. And with precious little thanks, I might add.” Her face wore its usual sour expression, but her black eyes softened slightly as they looked up at him.

  Perhaps it was true: when he spilled Lord Marlowe's wine on the tablecloth last week, she had managed to get the spot out with white vinegar before anyone noticed, and he had done little to acknowledge her help.

  “I do thank you, Rosie.” On impulse, he leaned over and pecked her cheek. Rosie glanced up at him sharply, and her mouth thinned. He wondered if she was thinking how much he had changed since they had first met. Well, what of it? He was glad to forget the ignorant lout he had once been.

  “There! That's my thanks,” he said, smiling. “Without your help, Blodgett would surely have thrown me back into the gardens before my first day was out.”

  Her mouth twitched reluctantly upward. �
��Don't waste your charm on me, you idiot. I'm not one of your infatuated chamber maids. For the third time and last time, what do you want of me?”

  He did not hesitate. “Five minutes alone with Lady Marlowe's lady's maid, Jenny Doyle.”

  Rosie did not answer. Her hands continued to twist the yarn brusquely. Then she looked up, her black eyes level under the straight, dark eyebrows. “Jenny Doyle, is it? Why her? Have you not had enough lights o' love already to content you?”

  He felt his cheeks grow warm again. “That's no concern of yours.”

  “Nor should she be yours. There are plenty of others in the house.” The yarn was beginning to tangle, but Rosie kept winding as if she didn't notice.

  “Curse it, Rosie!” He thought angrily that she was like a sister who was often irritating and occasionally useful. Why wouldn't she help? It was a simple enough request.

  Rosie appeared to be battling some inner reluctance. “You must accept my word that you'd best leave that one alone,” she said at last.

  “Why?”

  “It's best not to ask.” She continued to wind the yarn more quickly, although it was clear by now the skein was ruined.

  “Why?”

  A loud banging at the door interrupted them, and with an exclamation, Rosie began to disentangle her fingers from the yarn. “That must be the coal boy.”

  He put a hand on her forearm. “Please, Rosie!”

  She hesitated, then sighed heavily. “Very well. You’ll find her in the white garden. She walks there alone after supper.” Rosie tugged away her arm. “But don't trouble to thank me for telling you. I've done you no service.”

  “I shall anyway.” He gently tweaked her nose. “Stay here and finish your knitting. I'll open the door.”

  When Tom flung open the door, a child of ten or eleven years stood waiting on the step with an over-sized bag of coal slung over his shoulder, like a miniature, underfed Saint Nicholas, a bold grin on his begrimed face.

  "Why, there you are at last, guv'ner! I say, it took you long enough. Good thing I'm in no hurry." The boy strolled into the kitchen as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Hurry, child,” Tom said, nervously glancing in the direction of the silver pantry and thinking of Jenny, soon to be walking in the white garden. “Fling the coal in the scuttle and be on your way.”

  “Steady, guv'ner, steady.” The boy sauntered toward the scuttle, slowing his steps even more. He set down the heavy bag on the hearth, stretched, and waited expectantly. “I say," he said after a moment, "ye ’aven’t a spot of gin there, do ye? A nice place like this is sure to ’ave some refreshment for the likes of me and me da’ what drives the cart. The lady ’oo answers the door, she always has a little somethin’ for me, a cake or a piece of bread, or what ’ave you.”

  “I’m sure you’re paid sufficiently for the coal,” Tom said, annoyed by the lad's impertinence. “I'll not have you raiding the Marlowe’s pantry as well. Now finish pouring the coal, and begone with you.”

  The boy shrugged and poured the coal slowly while mumbling something half-audible under his breath.

  Tom wasn’t sure he heard him correctly. “What was that you said?” he said, taking a step forward.

  The boy turned and met his eyes boldly. “I says, 'Fartcatcher.'”

  Tom narrowed his eyes. “What?”

  “It is wot they call you fellers, didn't you know?” The boy snickered. “You lot walk directly behind the grand folks an' catch their farts. It is what they all say, behind your backs.”

  Tom heard one of the scullery maids giggle. A red haze covered his vision, and he leaped for the coal carrier to teach him a lesson in manners. The next thing he knew, Rosie appeared from nowhere, throwing herself in front of the boy to protect him.

  “Get out of the way!” Tom snapped. If she had been anyone else, he would have shoved her aside. But Rosie's glare forced him to fall back, although his hands itched to thrash the little monster who had humiliated him.

  “Get out! Leave!” Rosie snapped at the boy, who wasted no time obeying. She whirled on Tom, black eyes flashing. “And just what did you think you were doing?”

  “You heard what the brat said! I had to teach the wretch not to forget his place!”

  “His place? His place? And what is your place, I'd like to ask? Have you forgotten already where you came from?” Rosie waggled her finger in his face. “You were not so high and mighty when you came here, as I recall. You were a pleasant fellow back then, polite and eager to please. You've changed, all right, Mr. Tom West, but not for the better.”

  He was about to retort, but with difficulty swallowed his anger. He would forgive her this time, he told himself, but only because she had told him where to find Jenny. As he stalked away, Rosie's words reverberated in his mind. You’ve changed all right, but not for the better. He felt a twinge of shame. Could she be right? Then he brushed the thought away. It did not matter what Rosie thought of him. It only mattered that tonight, at last, he was going to see Jenny.

  * * *

  The white garden was so named because it was filled with blooms of white roses, jasmine, and lilies. Several minutes’ walk from the house, it was shielded by trees and high walls covered with ivy. This was the garden where Tom had cut the flowers for Sir Jonathan, an action that had provoked old Lemley's ire and led, indirectly, to the promotion to a footman. Idly, Tom wondered who Jonathan Marlowe’s flame had been and whether he still saw the girl.

  To his disappointment, the garden was empty save for advancing shadows and a statue of Aphrodite. Had Rosie intentionally misled him? As anger started to rise again, a slim form glided through the flowers as graceful as a ghost. He stood, heart pounding, transfixed as always at the girl's beauty, before summoning his courage to go forward.

  Head bent pensively, she plucked a camellia and pulled off the petals as she moved forward. Then she seemed to sense a presence. The camellia fell unheeded to the ground.

  “Who's there? Is that you, Tom West? What on earth are you doing here?”

  She knew his name! Hiding his elation, he bent and retrieved the flower.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, holding it out.

  “Oh.” She looked at it blankly before taking it and holding it awkwardly, as if she had forgotten all about it.

  If Jenny had been any of the other maids, Tom would have flattered her, taken her arm, sat with her on the carved stone bench. But to his dismay, the old awkward shyness unexpectedly returned, and he found himself grinning down at her foolishly as if he were still a lowly gardener.

  Jenny made to step around him. “Thank you for returning my flower. Good-night.”

  “No!” He could not let her get away so easily. Summoning up his courage, he said quickly. "I have been looking for you everywhere. I—I was afraid you did not wish you see me.”

  “I'm afraid Miss Marlowe keeps me so busy I have scarce a moment to call my own.” She did not meet his eyes as she tried to move past him.

  Belatedly, Tom remembered the pretext he had come up with for meeting her. “I came to ask a favor. You can read, can you not?”

  She looked up at him in surprise, fine eyebrows arching. “Yes, I attended a village school as a girl. Why do you ask?”

  “I should like to learn. Perhaps you could teach me.” It was the perfect pretext. To attain promotion to Blodgett’s status, Tom must educate himself. And it would be an excuse to spend time alone with Jenny Doyle.

  Her brows rose higher and there was an edge of laugher in her voice. “I'm hardly a schoolmistress.”

  But she hadn't said “no.” Jenny lingered, and her face held a hint of amusement—and perhaps, he thought hopefully, something else? She brought the camellia to her face as if to inhale its fragrance and her eyes sparkled over the edge of the white petals.

  With surprise, Tom realized he’d seen that look dozens of times. Jenny was being coy! With him!

  His old confidence rushed back. “Why not? The two of us together,
after supper.... Right here, in this garden. We could begin tonight....”

  “No.” Jenny stepped back and headed in the direction of the house, still holding the remains of the camellia. Just before disappearing around the corner of the yew hedge, she said over her shoulder, “Not tonight. Tomorrow, before it gets dark. But for a few minutes only.”

  Then she was gone.

  * * *

  The next night, after the guests' dinner had been served and the servants had been dismissed, Tom waited for Jenny in the white garden. When she arrived, she laughed merrily at the thick book under his arm.

  “Surely you do not intend to start with that?” She mocked him as if he were an amusing puppy.

  “I want to learn to read it,” he said, a little grumpily. “Sir Jonathan gave it to me.”

  “Did he now? Why should he do such a thing? It doesn’t seem—well, never mind. We shall start with something much simpler.” She pulled out a primer which Tom guessed she had found in the Marlowe's old schoolroom, and which may well have belonged to Jonathan as a child. The cover bore a clumsily drawn caricature of a large-nosed tutor brandishing a switch.

  Tom had hoped the reading lessons might turn into lessons of another sort, but when his leg nudged hers on the bench, she moved primly away. When he tried to gaze into her eyes, she focused all the more on the pages of the book. And long before he was ready to end their time together, she firmly closed the primer and rose to her feet.

  “I must go upstairs now. Lady Marlowe will be expecting me to help her prepare for dinner."

  He could not hide his disappointment. “Tomorrow, then?”

  She hesitated. “We shall see.”

  He watched her retreat, puzzled and disappointed. Why did Jenny, alone of the maids, resist him?

  Then he corrected himself. Rosie was equally immune to his charm. On the other hand, he had never tried to court the frizzy-haired seamstress. The very thought of courting her made him chuckle.