Authors: Catherine McGreevy
“West? West? What are you staring at?” Campbell turned impatiently.
Tom cleared his throat. “This one. It reminds me of my father's farm.”
“Your father has a farm?” Campbell's tone changed to one of respect.
“Had.”
“Ah. Enclosure?” A hint of sympathy roughened the Scotsman's voice. In the past few years, thousands of farmers had been forced off their land when the aristocracy had put up fences to graze their own herds. Some evicted families had tilled those pastures for centuries, as had Tom’s.
Tom shrugged. The tale was so common it was hardly worth the trouble to relate. The true tragedy had come a year later when, looking for work in the nearby town, his father had been mowed down by a nobleman’s horse, leaving his two orphaned children on the verge of starvation. As always, a pain shot through him at the memory of the crumpled body, his sister’s screams, and his own terrified whimpers.
The painting had brought back memories of an earlier, happier time, however, when his father had shown him how to guide the plow behind a pair of oxen just like the ones in the painting. He’d been too short to see over their broad backs, and his father had laughed and scooped him up in strong arms, seeming as huge as a giant. With a start Tom realized that he must now stand as tall as his father had, perhaps taller.
The billowing clouds in the painted sky reminded him that it was his father who had taught him how to smell rain before the sky darkened, who demonstrated when to plant precious seeds so the shoots would not freeze in a late frost. Once, Lemley had remarked with astonishment that young Tom had arrived at the manor already knowing so much about gardening that flowers seemingly burst into bloom under his touch.
“Ye were born to make things grow,” he told Tom. “Ye've magic in your fingers, my lad, and do not ye forget it!”
If his father had not lost the farm, Tom thought, studying somberly the result of the painter’s skilled brushstrokes in the gilded frame, he’d be behind a plow today, growing not ornamental flowers but barley, cabbages, and turnips: food to fill the bellies of hungry people. Strange, that the thought of such a humble vocation should suddenly pull at him, dressed as he was like a nobleman!
After Campbell set him to work cleaning an armoire, Tom’s found he missed even more the feel of earth between his fingers, the dampness of wet grass, the smell of growing things. For the first time, he noticed that his livery constricted his movements, and the gilt-trimmed walls closed him in like a prison.
After an hour's labor, he surveyed the newly polished armoire with vague discontent, but he angrily shook it off. He was the most fortunate of men, he reminded himself sternly ... until he believed it again.
* * *
Although Tom was settling comfortably into the household, one other factor disrupted his happiness, something he could not as easily dismiss. He had not forgotten Jenny. The pretty maid with the silver-gilt hair and sky-blue eyes lingered in his thoughts continually, and yet, try as he might, he had never succeeded in cornering her alone. The closest he got was viewing a flash of blue skirts as she hurried up the servant's stairs to her lady's quarters.
One night he raised the subject to Campbell as they lay on their beds relaxing in the small room they shared.
“Jenny Doyle? Lady Marlowe’s lady’s maid?” Campbell dragged on the strong-smelling brown cigarette he treated himself to each night. “And here I thought it was the new girl, Ada, you had your eye on. If that's not the case, I believe I shall look after that red-haired lassie meself.” He chuckled. "It's one of the advantages of our position. We are the roosters in the henhouse.”
Tom felt himself blushing, and Campbell rolled an eye in his direction, grinning. “I've seen their faces as you walk by, my lad. Don't worry, there’s enough for all of us.” He propped himself up on one elbow, warming to the subject. “Just mind that Blodgett doesn’t hear of it. That was Jenkins’ mistake. He fell for a lassie that wore a wee golden cross around her neck, and when he tried his usual tricks, she complained. Next thing you know, they were both out on their ear.”
“The girl was sacked too? But ….”
“’Twasn’t fair, do you mean to say?” The footman snorted. “No one cares tuppence what goes on below stairs, as long as they never hear word of it, but if something does come to their attention, they don't give a damn who’s at fault! There’s plenty of others beggin’ for the job; why trouble themselves sorting it all out? Let it be a lesson to you, my friend.”
Tom listened, tucking this away with other useful facts he had learned over the past weeks, such as the rivalry between the cook and housekeeper, Blodgett’s weakness for a glass of sherry before retiring, and Sir Jonathan’s burgeoning gambling debts. One never knew when they would be useful.
“But Jenny?” he repeated stubbornly.
“Aye, Jenny.” Campbell laid his head back on his pillow and blew a nearly perfect smoke ring toward the low ceiling, where it spread and broke apart. “She’s new to the household and rarely comes below stairs, only to fetch things for the missus. Thinks she’s too good for the rest of us, I suppose. Take my advice and pick another lass, my man. Lord knows, there’s plenty to choose from.”
Unsatisfied, Tom blew out the candle. If Jenny Doyle was proud, what of it? He was no longer an ignorant, blushing gardener. This past week, he had begun learning to assess wine (“Just a sip!” the French sommelier had warned, standing guard possessively over a newly decanted 1760 Chateau Lafite), and when he had informed Mrs. Snow with new authority that the béarnaise sauce needed a touch more tarragon, she had complied without shaking her mixing spoon at him, earning him the admiration of the other footmen.
No, by Jove, he thought, staring into the darkness. He'd ignore Campbell’s vague warning. Somehow he would find Jenny alone and make her his.
* * *
There was one great impediment to his goal, however, of which Tom was painfully aware. Although since assuming his new duties he had been working on improving his coarse accent and occasional lapses in grammar, he was still sensitive about his ignorance. How to overcome this obstacle, he did not know. The answer came in a way he had least expected.
It happened as he was in the library oiling rows of leather-bound books, which the master had presumably bought for ornament since many of the pages were uncut. Everyone knew a great house needed a well-stocked library. It mattered less whether the books were read or not.
Out of curiosity, Tom flipped open the heavy volume he was holding and gazed at the strange markings that crossed the page, idly wondering what they said. Then, turning the page, he found a surprise: behind a protective sheet of translucent paper appeared engraved images of grains, vegetables, and other plants.
Vegetables?
How absurd! Weren’t books reserved for more lofty subjects?
A voice startled him, almost causing him to drop the book.
“Hello, there! I do not suppose you’ve seen my riding crop have you? I have searched every blasted room in the house except this one!!”
Tom guiltily snapped shut the book. Jonathan Marlowe strode in and leaned against the lintel, crossing his gleaming boots and casually taking a pinch of powder from a bejeweled snuffbox.
Quickly, Tom shoved the volume back into the bookcase. “N-no, sir.”
An expression of mild curiosity crossed Sir Jonathan's features. “I say, were you actually reading that thing? Damme if you aren’t the first person to pull a book off those shelves since they were constructed!”
“Begging your pardon, sir. I was just …. No, sir.”
Sir Jonathan tucked the snuffbox into his breast pocket, regarding Tom curiously. The latter quickly pulled himself into the posture Campbell had taught him: chin up, shoulders back, eyes straight ahead.
The black eyes brightened. “I declare, it is you again! The gardener! I hardly recognized you under that wig. Things have worked out well for you, have they? I dare say you have me to thank. It was I who mentioned you to my father.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Tom wished Sir Jonathan would leave, so he could make his escape.
Instead, Jonathan strolled to the bookcase and casually pulled out the volume which Tom had been holding. His black brows glided upward as he took in the title. “Interesting choice,” he commented.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Jonathan read the title aloud:
A Practical Treatise on Husbandry; Wherein are Contained Many Useful and Valuable Experiments and Observations in the New Husbandry
. You’ve managed to select what is undoubtedly the dullest book in a very dull collection. I have no idea why we own it, considering we no longer raise crops on our lands. Pity, that the book should be wasted here, where it will never be read.” He began to toss the book aside, then paused. “I say, I do not suppose you’d care to have it?”
Tom could not believe his ears. His heart leaped, but the words that came out of his mouth were, “Thank you, sir, but I cannot read.”
Jonathan laughed. “Why, I can barely read myself, although my tutor switched me often enough in their efforts to teach me. I take in a page in the Gazette, on race days, which is the only time I have found that blasted tutoring useful.” Without warning, Jonathan tossed the heavy book in his direction, and Tom caught it automatically. “Here. Take the cursed thing! You might find the pictures entertaining, although damme if I can think why you bothered cracking it open. I’d wager ten pounds you’re the first who’s done so." He added, chuckling, “And no doubt will be the last.”
“Sir, I cannot accept—“
“Balderdash.” Jonathan headed toward the door. “If this library burned down tomorrow, none of us Marlowes would notice. I only came in here to find my riding crop, not that it is bloody likely to—ho, there it is! Fancy that! Perhaps the brownies brought it here, eh?” Still chuckling, he sauntered out, switching the crop against his leg.
As Tom's muscles relaxed, he let out a long breath. Thank heaven Blodgett had not witnessed the exchange, he thought, beginning to put the volume away, for he had not taken Sir Jonathan’s comments seriously. What use had he for a book, anyway?
Then something stopped him, and he looked at the cover again.
A Practical Treatise on Husbandry
, Sir Jonathan had called it. Husbandry. Another word for farming. Growing things.
He frowned. Why
shouldn't
he keep the book? Sir Jonathan had given it to him. It was sure to be full of useful information, and even if Tom did not use it himself, maybe the contents would do Lemley some good, or the other gardeners. Besides, Tom was curious. He had always prided himself on his skill as a gardener, and it would be interesting to learn the mysteries contained in the book.
But neither of those reasons were why, when Tom left the room, he took the book with him.
He had figured out the means to win Jenny.
Chapter Three
“Papa, smell those roses!”
“Mmmm, yes, dear. The scent is lovely.” The gray-haired man semi-dozing in one corner of the carriage opened an eye to see his grown daughter hanging her head out the window in a hoydenish manner his late wife would have frowned on. He could not bring himself to chasten her, however.
Abigail had grown up in quiet Cambridge, Massachusetts, and her eagerness to visit her father's homeland was infectious. He loved his daughter's honesty and vivacity. Those qualities were just what this ancient island nation needed, Mr. Miles Woodbury thought. Let Abigail shake up their dignified, noble hosts with her fresh enthusiasm. He only wished he looked forward to their visit to Blackgrave Manor as much as she did.
Mr. Woodbury discreetly rubbed his aching bones. The wide gravel road leading up to the imposing manor house was fully a mile long, shaded by trees some hundred feet tall, and flanked by rosebushes flaunting every color—crimson, pink, white, and yellow. It really was a spectacular display, he thought with grudging admiration. He only wished the trip from London had not been so long and tiring, and that he could soon return to his comfortable chair behind his desk at home with his Greek and Latin texts.
* * *
Abigail finally drew in her head, brushing a stray strand of chestnut hair under her new straw hat, and settled by her father. On the other side of the carriage lounged her father's cousin, clad in silks and lace, his wig done in elaborate curls.
Sir Anatole Corbus lifted a languid hand to his mouth and yawned. “Why the surprise?" he asked her. "Did not you know Blackgrave Manor is known for its gardens? They're quite famous, among people who care about such things." His slow drawl indicated that he did not. Anatole made a habit of not caring too much about anything.
Abigail studied her relative without affection. Anatole had grown up with the best of everything at his large estate in the West Indies: the most magnificent house, the most fashionable clothing, the most attentive servants. Perhaps it all paled after a time. But she could not imagine being bored like her cousin,
ever
. Not when there was so much to do in the world, so much to learn and discover. England, especially, fascinated her, since she had never before left Massachusetts.
As if reading her critical thoughts about him, Anatole smiled unpleasantly at her, and she quickly looked away. She had met her father's relative for the first time upon their arrival in England, and a more disagreeable man she had never known. He had all the failures of his class—arrogance, cold-heartedness, and a sense of God-given superiority—and few, if any, of its virtues. Not only had Anatole been a British officer in the war for American independency (a fact she and her father did their best to overlook in the interest of family relations), but he was the perfect example of an English nobleman who was interested in little besides fox hunting and horse races.
Her father could not have been more different. Miles Woodbury rarely took his nose out of his ancient history books except when something happened in the real world too important to ignore ... such as a bloody revolution for independence, or the death of his beloved wife.
Abigail pulled her thoughts away from that painful memory. Her mother's passing was still too new, too raw. One of the reasons for the trip was to distract her father from his loss. The other reason was to give Abigail time to consider Benjamin Pinckney's proposal of marriage.
So far, the trip to England had accomplished at least two of their goals. Despite occasional tensions between the two cousins, her father had been brought out of his self-imposed isolation, and Abigail was enjoying the new experiences she had always yearned for. As for Benjamin's proposal, the very fact that she had not brought herself to consider it was in itself an answer. In fact, she had scarcely given a thought to her suitor's cadaverous face and moist hands since stepping off the dock at Plymouth.
The trip had not gone entirely smoothly, however. Miles Woodbury and Anatole had agreed to avoid political discussions, but the subject inevitably
would
come up. Then her father's face turned and he would start quoting his friend Samuel Adams about England's former tyranny, stabbing his pudgy finger in the air to punctuate his point. Then Anatole smiled coldly down his patrician nose and predicted that the colonies would eventually come running back to Mother England, tricorn hats in their repentant hands once they learned from experience how difficult it was to govern their quarrelsome populations.
“That will never happen,” her father had shouted, pounding his fist on the table of the inn where they were staying. “Now that the new Constitution has been ratified, our union will be so strong we need never fear outside powers again....”
Smiling at the memory of her father's vehemence, Abigail lowered her knitting needles and looked again out the carriage window. Long gravel paths spread in every direction, bordered by statues of classical deities and flanked by towering walls of yew. Everywhere, masses of scented roses of every size and color spread, scattered about like patterns in a giant Persian carpet.
She wondered what the Marlowes, the family of Anatole's fiancée, were like. She must tell Papa that, no matter what, he must stick to the weather and the subject of his latest book, a treatise on ancient civilizations. Of course, she was as likely to say something incorrect, if not more so. She resolved that, no matter what, she would school her own impulsive tongue.
The next thing she knew, the carriage was stopping by the imposing manor house, and she was being helped down by a tall footman who looked like one of the statues they had passed on the long drive.
Their hosts had gathered on the top step of the great mansion to greet them: Lord Marlowe, whose fine clothes and supercilious bearing exceeded those of Anatole Corbus; Miss Maeve Marlowe, a thin-faced, mousy-haired young woman swathed in unflattering satin ruffles; and Lady Marlowe who appeared politely distant under her enormous upswept coiffure. Last of all, dark-haired Jonathan, who looked hardly older than herself. Stocky and with marks of dissolution about his good-humored dark eyes, he came forward to greet them.
His face lit up when he saw her, and as soon as introductions were made, he pulled her aside in a hallway filled with grand paintings. Before she knew it, Jonathan’s hand stole familiarly around her shoulder, and, startled at his brazenness, she noticed the smell of liquor on his breath.
“I say!” he breathed into her ear. “How jolly to see someone my own age around here for once! I dare say you'd rather spend time with me than with those dullards, eh?”
She pushed his hand away, wondering if she had done something to give the impression such attentions would be welcome. Had she committed some faux pas?
“What dullards?” she asked, her eyebrows rising. “Our parents?”
He shrugged. “You'll find London was much more entertaining than the country. The suppers there, the fêtes, the theaters…!”
“Then why are you here?”
He draped himself casually against the elaborately carved wood paneling. “My father insisted, after my latest scrape. Nothing to speak of, just a misunderstanding involving a French actress and some debts. Now that you're here, I shall not mind so much. At least there’ll be more to do than stroll around those tiresome gardens.”
“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.