The Gardener (28 page)

“I shall have to write Isaac and tell him I made it. I'll send the letter directly after the plowing and the planting are over. And old Lemley, too, if he's still alive to hear it. He deserves to know. And Rosie, too, the little minx. I wonder what
she'll
have to say about it all? Some wisecrack or insult, no doubt, but she'll be glad all the same! I shall send her back the money, with interest, two or three times over, after the first crop is sold.”

“Lord Marlowe?” Abigail could no longer hold in the words. “Are you referring to the master of Blackgrave Manor in Kent, England?”

He looked at her, his deep-blue eyes startled. She realized he had forgotten about her while lost in his private memories. But any hurt was swallowed up in her excitement at having put the last puzzle piece together.

“I have been there!” she exclaimed. “To Blackgrave Manor! I was Lord Marlowe’s guest there, along with my father a few years ago. 'Twas my cousin, Sir Anatole Corbus, who....”  She caught her breath. “So
that's
where you were a footman! Did I not see you there? But how could I have missed you?”

“You did see me,” he said, without smiling. “'Twas I who handed you down from the carriage the day you and your father arrived. I was the one who dropped the fish at Miss Marlowe’s engagement dinner. You looked directly at me.”

“That was you?” She stared at him incredulously, remembering her comments to her father about how the footmen looked like tin soldiers rather than real, living human flesh. “But why did not you tell me the truth before?”

A trace of bitterness crossed his face. “Back then, I was just part of the house's furnishings, a backdrop for Lord Marlowe and his family. Why should you remember me?”

But the fact was she
did
remember the footman who had spilled the fish. Although it had been so long ago, a vague memory emerged of a handsome face under a powdered wig, a mortified expression, as the servant had lunged for the platter. She had felt sorry for the man, had wondered what became of him afterward. She reached for her husband's hand. “Tom….”

His bitter expression vanished, and suddenly Tom laughed, his anger gone. He swept her off her feet and swung her around so her legs flew out like a child's. After her first shock, she laughed in delight, throwing her head back. Her hat fell off and her hair burst out if its pins and flew around her shoulders like flames.

When Tom carefully set her back on her feet, excitement still glowed in his face. His arms remained around her, pulling her against his chest, and she could feel his heart pounding. “I shall build the house over there, high enough that we’ll stay dry, even when the creek floods. Those trees will shade it in the summer, protect it from wind in the winter. The Mullers said they would farm over there, around the bend in the creek.” With his free arm, he pointed toward the south, and she followed his gaze toward a low rise in the distance, nearly hidden by trees. “Close enough that we'll see their chimney smoke and we can help each other should Indians attack, but still have plenty of room to spread out. And ....” His hand tightened on her waist, and his voice lowered with incredulity. “I own as much land as I can till.”

She filled her lungs with the crisp air, closed her eyes to feel the breeze caress her cheek. The wind would not be so gentle in the winter, she knew. The spicy scent of field daisies and other wildflowers rose to her nostrils. Soon their fragrance would be joined by that of roses, after she planted the cuttings that nestled in the back of the wagon.

The long trip was only the beginning of their journey. The future would be difficult. There would be backbreaking work, despair, and, almost certainly, tragedy.

She could hardly wait.

*     *     *

As on the trail, Tom and Abigail slept wrapped in blankets under the wagon at night, while during the day, he constructed a cabin. When the small structure was finished, Abigail surveyed the rough walls wryly. The house was snug enough, but there was barely room for their bed, a small table, and two chairs. The rifle, loaded in case of need, was hung over the doorway. The small, crude structure was a far cry from the spacious, two-story mansion on Follen Street.

While Tom cleared the land with the aid of his axe and the two grays, Abigail got her first taste of what it would mean to be a farmwife. Any fantasies of noble heroes and rescued maidens had long since disappeared. She was too busy creating her new life these days to indulge in silly dreams. Despite her growing belly, she was up at the crack of dawn to cook breakfast for Tom. Then she fed the chickens and gathered eggs, baked bread for the later meals, repaired Tom's torn shirt clothes or patched his breeches, knit a supply of wool socks for winter, gathered berries, and tended the new kitchen garden for vegetables. When it was dark, she sewed baby clothes by firelight.

Looking out over the rolling landscape giving way to Tom’s axe and, later, his plow, Abigail felt a surge of jubilation. This was what she had dreamed of, everything she had hoped for.

It was not long after they arrived, however, when she was alone in the house, that she heard something odd outside and went to investigate. At the sight of the large black furry beast padding through her vegetable garden, she immediately flew back into the house and slammed the door, heart palpitating. A bear! They had seen signs of the animals along the trail, but they had never felt threatened. But being alone was different.

With shaking hands she got the rifle down from above the door. She could lock herself inside all day, but what if Tom came home and the bear attacked him? Carefully she nudged open the door. The beast was still there, mangling her garden while making rough blowing sounds that sent a chill up her spine.

As if sensing her watching, it stopped and turned its head toward her. Abigail's finger tightened on the trigger. The bear cocked its head, then suddenly raised itself to full height. Making a different sound now, a loud, threatening pulsing noise, it lumbered toward her. Closing her eyes and muttering a prayer, she pulled.

The sound of the rifle's explosion in the small confines of the cabin was deafening. Abigail opened her eyes to see the black bear bounding away, still making the rough, blowing sound that caused her neck hairs to stand on end. She had missed the animal, but at least it was gone, hopefully for good.

Soon Tom came running back, having heard the rifle go off. He arrived too late to see the bear, but he found her sitting by the hearth, methodically cleaning the rifle and reloading it. Abigail's hands had stopped shaking by now, but her heart was still pounding.

While Abigail explained what happened, he listened intently. "You did the right thing," he said when she finished. "I suppose it was for the best that you learned how to shoot after all."

"You're agreeing that I was right?" The words sounded sweet to her ears. How rare for Tom to admit he had been mistaken! Pride had always been one of his greatest faults.

He gave her one of his rare smiles, the ones that made her heart flip over. "I am beginning to discover you are right more often than not," he admitted. Then his eyes dropped to her swelling midsection, and the grin disappeared as his eyes grew serious. "We'll have to make sure that rifle is always loaded from now on. At least, it's a relief to know you can protect yourself while I'm away."

Chapter Twenty

Despite such rare moments of closeness, Abigail knew things between them changed since her pregnancy, and not for the better. Tom seemed to have forgotten that moment when they had looked over the land that would become their farm, when he had impulsively picked her up and swung her around in joy.  As in the early days in the house at Cambridge, it seemed these days that Tom could hardly bear looking at her.

Abigail suspected it was because of the baby. He’d told her straight-out from the beginning he wanted no children, yet she had done everything she could to make their marriage a real one.

Finally, as she had done before, Abigail confronted him. She prepared a special meal with his favorite foods, and as they sat across the small table from each other, a pink and gold sunset spreading across the horizon outside the open door, she gathered her courage. “Why are you afraid, Tom?”

“Afraid?” He set down his fork, scowling.

With an edge of triumph she thought,
At least I have gotten to him. Better any emotion than none at all.

“Of me. Of this.” She gestured at her swelling belly. He looked briefly and then turned his head away again. Abigail forged on. “I understand why you're angry, but what’s the purpose of all your work to create this farm if there’s no one to leave it to?”

“You’re assuming the brat survives.”

She swallowed at the harsh words. Brat?
Was that how he thought of the baby?
"Is that what you're afraid of? That the child will die?”

“My mother lost three children. My older sister died in childbirth. And so did … someone else I cared for.”

Such tales were not unusual. Almost everyone she knew had a similar story to tell. But that did not mean one gave up.

"Sometimes that happens," Abigail told him. And if so, we'll try again. We cannot allow that to determine whether we have a baby or not.”

He pushed his plate away without meeting her eyes. Abigail's heart lurched again. Once again she wondered why she loved him so much, so painfully, with so little affection given in return. Despite what her friend Sarah Osgood had said, she knew it wasn't merely because of Tom's good looks, although those had certainly caught her notice from the beginning. Yet it was the man inside she cared for, the one who had worked so hard to achieve his dream, who did not let anything stop him.

Except this. But why did Tom fear childbirth so? Unless....

Of course! The nagging jealousy so foreign to her had caused her to banish that part of his past from her thoughts.

She swallowed hard. “When did the child die?”

To his credit, he did not pretend not to understand. “A month before I arrived at your door.”

“And ... and its mother?”

A look of desolation appeared on Tom's face, and her heart turned over. He’d only mentioned his wife once before, briefly. Again, she felt again that sickening stab of jealousy and then, with supreme effort, put it aside forever. “What was her name?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.

“Mabel.”

“Was she … was she beautiful?”

“Yes.”

His answer was so simple, so immediate, that it took Abigail's breath away. She remained silent, thinking about the woman he had loved, trying to picture his first wife. Had she had long yellow ringlets, a perfect profile, a slender waist?

Then, because Tom seemed willing for the first time to answer her questions, Abigail cleared her throat and pressed on, as delicately as she could. “Did M-Mabel die in childbirth?”

At first she was afraid that he would refuse to answer. To her relief he nodded, his hand tracing a design on the rough surface of the wooden table. “The child was stillborn, and my wife bled to death.”

“How did you meet her?” Abigail was surprised that Tom was willing to reveal so much about his past. She intended to make the most of it, before he decided to clam up again.

“She was the daughter of the man who owned my indentures.”

Abigail's eyebrows shot up. It was the first time Tom had referred to the fact that he had been an indentured servant. She remembered the newspaper advertisement her father had shown her, but decided not to mention it. That part of his history was an avenue to explore later.

“My dearest Tom….” To her relief he did not ridicule the term of endearment, which burst out of her mouth unexpectedly. “…Just because such misfortune happened once does not mean it must happen again.”

He moved restlessly in his seat. “It could. It does. You know as well as I do that women often die in childbirth.”

“If it was so common as that, you and I wouldn’t be sitting here talking of it! Besides, isn't bringing life into the world worth the risk?”

At that, Tom turned his face toward her, and she was surprised at the intensity of the deep blue eyes under the ridge of those straight brows. “Do you not understand what I'm trying to tell you, Abigail? Whenever I love someone, bad luck follows. Every woman I have cared about was taken from me, one way or another.”

“So it is better not to care at all?”

When he remained silent, tears filled her eyes, and she got up from the table. The sun had set, and it was dark outside. Shutting the door on the cool night air, she turned to tend the dying fire. If only she could find magic words to pierce Tom's armor! Abigail nudged the logs and watched the flames leap up to new life, their warm light flickering against the enclosed walls of the cabin, before she turned to face him again.

“I do not mind the risk,” she said flatly. “After all, I took a risk coming out here with you. I could have stayed safe at home in Cambridge, but what would be the point? Any of us can die any time, but should the worst should happen, God forbid
,
I want to have
lived
first!”
With you
, she added silently.

When he sat without responding, she knelt and took his big, calloused hands in hers. The network of small white scars on their backs had faded, and they barely showed.

“The baby will come,” she stated matter-of-factly. “'It will come, whether it survives or not, or whether I survive or not. Go ahead, plow your fields, grow your corn, build a prosperous farm, and do not give two pins for either of us, if it protects you from pain. But I wish ....” Emotion choked off her voice as she silently finished her sentence:
I wish you did care.

Tom stared silently at her, face pale. Then suddenly he jumped up. "You don't understand. It is just that—” He cut himself off with a wordless oath, his hands curling into fists. “I need to milk the cow,” he said curtly, and strode outside, banging the door behind him.

*     *     *

That spring, the rains came. Tom lifted the swatch of cloth that served as a curtain and watched the torrent fall, gazing out the small window he’d cut into the side of the cabin. He was relieved to see the water fill the cisterns he had dug so laboriously, to watch as the neat rows of young crops he had planted expanded almost visibly from the nourishing moisture. The rich, dark earth drank it up.

When the downpour continued day after day, however, he began to worry. He’d built the cabin far up the bank from the creek, knowing that occasional floods were likely, but now he wondered if he had miscalculated. It had been tempting to build close enough to the creek that he and Abigail would not have to walk too far for water, but now, daily, he saw its level rise, rivulets eat away at the earthen banks.

Tom kept a cautious eye on the creek, now a river, and made plans, just in case. They could sleep in the wagon if they had to, move their goods to higher ground. But perhaps it wouldn't be necessary, he told himself hopefully. The rain couldn't last forever.

That night he lay in bed trying to tamp down his worries enough to fall asleep, when next to him, his wife groaned. Instantly he sat up. “Abigail?”

His answer was another low groan, louder than the first. He groped to light a tallow candle and saw her sitting up next to him, bent over, hands on her belly, chestnut hair hanging over her damp face.

A shard of fear stabbed through him. “Abigail, are you all right?”

“I think it is coming.”

“
Oh God
.” It was not an oath but a prayer. Why now? He'd known this day would come, but why now, in the middle of the night during a torrential storm? A vision flashed in his head of another place, of such groans followed by screams, of twisted, blood-stained sheets.

Tom stumbled to his feet. “I thought we had more time. You said it would be another month, at least.”

“Go fetch Ruth Muller.” Abigail's voice was faint. “She will help.”

“I cannot get Mrs. Muller and return in time! Not in this weather.”

“Then I shall go to her myself. Prepare the horses.” Clumsily, she was scrambling out of bed, her long hair falling over the shoulders of her white nightgown.

He started to argue, but stopped. The alternative was to stay and deliver the baby himself. It would probably die either way, but this way, at least there might be a chance.

He harnessed the team as quickly as possible and gently lifted Abigail into the wagon. Swearing under his breath, he returned to the house for blankets and tucked them carefully around her to shield her from the falling rain. He could tell that she was trying to hold back groans. Grimly, Tom mounted the buckboard and called to the team, and they set off.

The wagon made slow headway through the mud, and he wondered anxiously if they would see the lights of the Millers' cabin in the dark. If the older couple had extinguished their fire before going to bed, he might miss the place altogether.

The sound of rushing water grew louder. Had the river had spilled over its banks at last, changed its course? In the dark, they might not be able to see the flood in time to save themselves. The ground continued to support the weight of the wagon, however, and although they traveled slowly, their progress was steady.

Finally, they saw it: a spark in the distance, no larger than a firefly. Relieved, he directed the tired horses toward it. Half a mile later, however, the wagon suddenly jolted and came to a stop. He leaped down to inspect the wheels and found one had hit a rock and cast its iron tire. No time to repair it before the baby came.

Tom stared at the wheel, his heart sinking. The pelting rain soaked through his shirt and waistcoat, and plastered his hair across his head, but he was scarcely aware of it. Why had they so foolishly left the cabin? At least there, they would have remained snug and dry. Shamefully, he’d been more afraid of facing the birth than of confronting the rain. Now they must face the worst of both.

He heard Abigail make a soft, whimpering sound and knew that her labor would not last much longer. If it was not born already dead, the child would die soon thereafter. All he could hope for was somehow to save Abigail.

With a jolt like a fist to the gut, he realized his pretense of indifference for her was nothing more than a sham. He knew when she had impulsively saved him on the dock at Plymouth that she was a woman like no other—generous, loyal and courageous, with a lively spirit that continued to intrigue him later, even in his surliest moods. Yet he had turned his back on her many overtures of friendship, all because of his bullheaded determination to remain independent. He struggled to ignore the fact that her burnished hair and trim figure caused his palms to grow warm, had sensed from the beginning that Abigail Woodbury had the power to cause him more anguish than any of the other women he had known.

Now, standing in the rain, Tom admitted to himself that he had agreed to marry Abigail and bring her west because deep inside he desperately wanted her with him. Yet after Jenny's treachery, after Mabel's death, he had sworn never to allow a woman to have that kind of power over him. He had been right to do so: never had he felt more vulnerable than he did right now, standing alone, bareheaded in the pouring rain, watching life drain from a woman he loved.
How did I allow this to happen?

This emotion was deeper than the tender pity he had felt for Mabel Radstone, more meaningful than the cheap infatuation he had felt for Jenny. It was a love that could have lasted a lifetime, had he not been too selfish, too blind to see it. And it was his fault that Abigail was going to die.

Maybe not. Not if he could get help immediately. But how? Tom thought furiously. He could not leave Abigail alone in the dark, in the rain, as she struggled to bring a new life into the world.

Climbing back into the wagon, he took her in his arms, trying to decide what to do. If nothing else, he must show strength, make her believe everything would be fine. “Abigail.”

She turned her head. In the glimmer of light from a burst of lightning, he saw for a split second her wet lashes, the curve of her cheeks.

“How much longer?” Tom asked, pushing strands of soaked hair off her forehead with a hand he tried to keep from trembling.

She sucked in a long breath, squeezing her eyes shut. “Not long, I think.”

Tom cast desperately over their options. He could race on foot the last half mile to the Muller’s cabin and bring back Ruth to serve as midwife, but by the time they returned, it would likely be too late. Or—he shuddered—he could try to deliver the baby in the wagon, although he had not the faintest idea how to go about it. He’d been shut out of the room when Mabel had delivered her stillborn baby. The thought of inadvertently causing harm to Abigail or the child made him shudder.