The Gardener (8 page)

On the fourth day, a constable herded Tom upstairs to a courtroom for his trial. Blodgett was the sole witness. Tom did not recognize anyone else in the crowded room. The butler avoided his eye before the guards bundled Tom back to his cell, after being allowed barely time to avow his innocence. It came as no surprise when shortly after, the verdict was relayed to him: guilty.

Isaac had warned that execution usually took place quickly after a verdict. The pair of guards who appeared the next morning had come for Marty and Jake. The two sullen men were herded out, prodded with blows and curses, before the door swung shut with a final clang.

Isaac's usual wry humor was not in evidence today. He lay on the stone bench that served as his cot listening to the wagon outside squeak as it rumbled away, carrying its somber load. His face looked tired and lined, and purple pouches hung under his eyes. Tom had guessed the pickpocket was in his mid-forties; today he looked sixty.

Thirty minutes or so later they heard a distant cheer. Isaac sighed and settled his glasses back on his hooked nose. “Too late,” he remarked. “I had hoped .... Ah well. Perhaps by tomorrow....”

Tom did not understand the remark. He was busy trying to banish the gruesome images in his head.

An hour later he heard a key in the lock and looked up with surprise. It was not yet suppertime. Surely they had not come for him this late in the day? He jumped to his feet when the iron door screeched open to reveal a bent frame standing uncertainly in the doorway.

“Tom?”

“Lemley!”

The old gardener moved into the room, mumbling a word of thanks to the gaolor and passing him a shilling. He touched his cap politely to Isaac, then turned his gaze on Tom.

“Are they takin' good care of ye, my lad?” He carefully did not notice the mouse that scampered across the stone floor, nor twitch his nose at the stench that filled the room like an open latrine. “Ye look well enough.”

Tom did not want to talk about himself. “How did you find me, Lemley?”

“Only by chance. I went to the house to tell ye some news, and was told you had gone. That was before the rumors started flying. It took a piece o' work to find out where you was being held. I came as soon as I was able.”

Tom was ravenous for news: “Tell me everything. What are they saying about me?”

“A pack of lies, Tom. A pack of lies. Them as knows ye knows none of it is true.” Lemley looked down at his scuffed boots while simultaneously scratching behind his ear. “Some nonsense about a stolen snuffbox .... I didn't believe it for a moment. There was another story that you'd found a position elsewhere. I didn't believe that either. I knew you'd have come to say good-bye, bein' how we are such old friends and all.”

“And the wedding?” For some reason Tom wanted to know how it had all ended.

“Went off without a hitch. The American and his daughter left two days after the ceremony. I don't think they knew of the commotion over your departure; Lord Marlowe kept a tight lid on it, although of course we servants found out soon enough.”

Lemley refrained from asking the question that must have been bursting inside him. Sensing this, Tom told him briefly the truth of what had happened the night of his departure. Lemley's rheumy eyes widened, When Tom finished, he shook his head.

“I
knew
you'd run into trouble someday, and through no fault of yours, although I tried my best to warn ye. That's the way of it: no justice for the likes of you and me. Not till we get our heavenly reward ....”               He sighed deeply.

Tom broke in. He did not want to think of his heavenly reward, not yet. “There's a girl, a girl named Jenny Doyle. Do you—?”

Lemley shook his head. “I know nothin' about her, nor about any of the other house staff. But I shall ask when I get back. Maybe I can give you more news next....”

His voice trailed off. Both of them knew there would likely be no next time.

The guard outside cleared his throat and stamped his feet. Gruffly, the two friends exchanged good-byes. With a final “God bless your soul, me lad,” Lemley turned his bent shoulders to leave.

Tom watched the old man retreat, his stomach sinking. When the door clanged shut, he turned to see Isaac watching, an ironic grin revealing artificially white, even teeth.

“So it was true, then, what the guards said?” he said, tapping his dentures thoughtfully with a long forefinger. “About the master's daughter? Ah, a young man's escapades! Well, true or not, it hardly matters now. Your fate will be the same.” He filled his clay pipe with a pinch of the foul-smelling tobacco and lit it. Tom still had no idea who it was who tripped across the cobblestones every day to deliver his cellmate's daily supply, but the stench had the happy side-effect of driving away some of the vermin.

Isaac looked up through the smoke. “Well, who was she? That girl you asked about?”

Tom thought of china-blue eyes and golden hair. Like Isaac had said, it hardly mattered now. “A lady's maid. Jenny.” Her name seemed to lighten the thick air of the cell.

Isaac gave a low, mocking whistle. “You
were
a busy lad, weren't you? Not only the master's daughter, but a lady's maid as well?”

Tom scowled at him, but Isaac appeared unfazed. “Ah, do not mind my jesting, lad. Folks in our situation must grab our laughs as we can.” He drew in a deep breath of pipe smoke and let it out slowly while waggling a long, narrow foot over the edge of the bed. A toe poked through a hole in the black worsted stocking. “Pity, that a lad with your unquestioned talents must swing. And, if I might say so—” The cutpurse grinned and wiggled the graceful fingers of his free hand. “A man with my talents as well. If you weren't to hang tomorrow ...
if,
mind you ... what would you do, young Tom? Where would you go?”

Tom was startled. He hadn't bothered to dream of such an unlikely eventuality. “I don't know.” But he did, of course. He would go to see Jenny, explain what had happened so she did not think ill of him. After that, where he went did not matter.

Isaac blew another lungful of smoke thoughtfully at the ceiling. “As for me,” he said dreamily, “
I'd
go to the Blue Boar. Best roast beef in London, and the prettiest wenches. I vow, they'd make you forget your Jenny in no time at all.” His head fell back, and Tom knew his companion's thoughts had drifted far from their cell.

*     *     *

It felt as if Tom had barely fallen asleep before he and Isaac were rousted and shoved into an open wagon. From the squeaking of its rear wheel, he knew it was the same conveyance that had taken away Marty and Jake. As before, his arms were tied behind his back, causing him to fall against the sides of the cart as they jounced over the cobblestones.

People thronged the streets, all of them—men, women, children— eagerly watching the convicts' journey toward their final destination. Two sets of hangings in two days was an unusual treat. Tom wondered why the court hadn't hung the four cellmates together, to save time. Not enough scaffolds, perhaps.

A chill ran through him at the sight of the onlooker's bright eyes and bloodthirsty grins, the sound of their raucous calls. The waves of their sweaty excitement were palpable, like electricity before a thunderclap. Tom could almost feel the tightening of the scratchy rope around his neck.

At the thought, he gulped a deep breath of air. It was thick with coal smoke and reeked of emptied chamber pots, but compared to the atmosphere in the cell, it tasted as sweet as wine. This would be the last air he would breathe, forever. He filled his chest again and again until his lungs nearly burst.

Just then a hideous old woman burst out of the crowd and loped alongside the wagon in her rags, hurling shrieking curses at them. Isaac, seated on the side of the cart nearest her, was seemingly lost in his thoughts, as he had been all morning, and ignored her insults, even when she raised her scrawny arm and, half-climbing over the side of the wagon, struck him viciously against the cheek. The wagon lurched around a corner, and she fell away, sputtering invectives and waving her fist in the air.

Isaac fell heavily against Tom, and his elbow dug painfully into Tom's bound side. As the wagon began its final turn toward the spot where the top of the gibbet loomed above the crowd, he spoke rapidly into Tom's ear.

“I'm going to jump for it.” There was no need to whisper for above the roar of the crowd not even the driver of the cart could hear them. “I'll go out the right side. You take the left. That way, one of us might have a chance.”

“But ....”

Tom suddenly realized that his hands and feet were free. A telltale glint of metal in Isaac's hand told him what had happened. Someone had passed the knife to Isaac as the cart rolled along—the old woman, no doubt, when she raised her hand to slap him.

Isaac grinned, revealing his ivory dentures. Without another word, he hurled himself over the side of the cart. There was no time for thought. Tom instinctively followed suit.

He heard a yell from the guard, then he was twisting and shoving through the jungle of close-pressed bodies. Hands caught at him, snatched at his clothing, but his size and strength proved once again to his advantage. He shoved aside the grasping hands, threw a blow at someone's head, and ducked and twisted through the spectators. Behind him he heard a gunshot.

The crowd proved his salvation. As he plowed through the horde, hunching over to hide his height, the onlookers at the back took him for just one more of the mob and let him pass unmolested. When he surfaced at the edge of the square, he straightened and took off pell-mell down the narrow, twisting streets. Shouts followed him, and he knew pursuers would soon be at his heels. Already, passersby were looking at him with odd expressions. When they heard the cries, he knew they would put two and two together and join the hunt.

When he finally found a quiet hidden corner, he drew up, panting for breath, and took stock of his situation. He could not continue running through the streets in soiled knee-breeches and torn shirt, looking like the escaped convict he was. Hunger and the beating he had received from Lord Marlowe’s henchmen had weakened him. His only chance was to find a place to hide. If he were recaptured, he was fully aware there would be no second chance. A knife would be at his throat until the rope was around his neck and the trap door flung open.

Suddenly Tom remembered Isaac's query: what he would do if, somehow, he did not hang? Had it been a hint to prepare him for what was to happen? Although Tom had not responded to Isaac's question, he knew the answer at once. Nothing, not even the threat of the gibbet, could keep him away from Jenny.
She
would believe his explanation.
She
would shelter him. He was certain that, deep inside, she must feel for him as he did for her. Those stolen moments together, the time she had returned his kiss....

And after that? No matter. Once he had seen her, he was certain things would take care of themselves.

Chapter Eight

Tom spent three days traveling northwest on foot, mostly by night. By day, he slept in ditches or under hedgerows. The wrathful Lord Marlowe would be sure to send men after him when the news of the escape arrived, but Tom thought no one would expect him to go back to the great house.

Still, he could not be sure. They might be on alert, expecting another attack on Miss Marlowe—at least, those who believed her lie. Or they might suspect an act of revenge. Either way, he avoided other travelers and watched carefully for anyone with the appearance of a detective.

On the third day, near starvation, he broke into a cottage and found a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese, wolfing it down. His belly satisfied, he felt an attack of guilt. Whoever owned the cottage was poor, and now they might go hungry. As a child, he had lived in just such a cottage, and he knew how precious every crust of bread was. By way of payment, he chopped some firewood and left it by the door, hoping the family would forgive him. Having been unjustly labeled a thief, he had no wish to become one.              

When he reached the scattering of thatch-and-wattle houses that made up the village near Blackgrave Manor, a few streaks of red and orange remained in the sky. A breath of wind stirred the dead leaves on the ground, making a low rustle.

As Tom walked the final distance to the manor house, fatigue caught up with him, and he paused by the stone gates to rest. The structure loomed before him like a mountain, its bricks turned to black in the dark. The tall yew hedges surrounding the rose gardens of which Lady Marlowe was so proud shielded him from view.             

Glancing toward the low line of the stable roof, he thought of waking Lemley, but discarded the notion immediately. Too dangerous, for him and for Lemley. The old gardener had no access to the main house, and besides, he had risked enough by coming to visit Tom in prison. No, better let the old man rest.

Tom transferred his gaze back to the main house. The lighted windows told him there was activity within. Jenny might be brushing Lady Marlowe's hair, laying out her mistress's nightclothes, or attending to one of her many other tasks. It would be difficult to find her alone. Far more difficult than in the past, for now he must be neither heard nor seen, and the manor's residents would be on guard. But he must manage it, somehow.

Once, at Tom's request, Campbell had pointed out the maid's room. It lay just under the eaves of the north wing. As Lady Marlowe's personal lady's maid, Jenny merited a private room. The small window showed a faint flicker of light, like that given off of a tallow candle. Jenny must be there now, he thought, preparing for bed.

He mentally thanked whoever had designed the manor house for providing sturdy balconies that were convenient for climbing. Gripping the iron bars, he hoisted himself upward, finding the climb more difficult however as the balconies grew more infrequent and narrower. The window he sought was graced only by a ledge, barely wide enough for him to stand on. Through the curtains he saw a shadow move.

A jolt of joy shot through him, and he was about to call out her name when a larger shadow moved next to the first.

He froze. Then he pressed his ear against the glass, straining to hear. A soft, high-pitched voice drifted out, light and lilting. Jenny! The other voice was harder to hear, deeper. A man's voice. Tom waited an eternity, muscles cramping on the narrow balcony, while unsuccessfully trying to make out the murmured words. Eventually the voices stopped, and an interior door opened and shut. There was no further sound.

After waiting a few moments for safety, he rapped softly at the window.

There was no response. Then the curtain lifted to the side and Jenny's pale face appeared, ghostlike in the light of the candle she was holding, that cast her lovely features into relief: her soft chin, her delicate cheek, her rounded brow. Her golden hair spilled to her waist like a waterfall, the first time he had seen it unbound. When she saw him, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect “O.”

With her free hand, she raised the sash. “You!” she exclaimed.

“Jenny!” He made to climb into the room, but she blocked his way with her hands, anxiously searching the grounds below.

“The guardsmen,” she whispered. “Are you sure they did not see you?”

“Yes. I was careful.”

She transferred her attention to him, but her worried look did not alter. “Why on earth did you come back? Climbing to my window like this? What a foolish thing to do!”

It was not the reception he had hoped for: the cries of joy, her willing arms going around his neck.... But it was natural that she should be concerned about his safety, he reminded himself. And after all, he had thoughtlessly put her in danger, too.

“I escaped from prison,” he explained. “I do not suppose you heard the truth about why I was arrested.”

“Of course. Sir Jonathan's jeweled snuffbox. They said some silver had gone missing as well. Blodgett found it all under your mattress."

He felt his face grew hot, and he forgot to whisper. “That's a lie! I took nothing. Miss Marlowe was the one who—”

“It doesn't matter.” Jenny cut him off. “Whatever happened, you were a fool to come back. What if someone finds you?” She paused, as if an unpleasant idea had occurred to her. “Surely you do not expect
me
to hide you?”

He was taken aback. “Of course not,” he lied, feeling foolish. “But I had to see you again.”

“Why?”

The simple directness of the query caught him off guard. He had no response. At least, none that he could say without looking a fool.
              Because I love you. Because I thought you would worry about me. Because I needed to know you believed I was innocent.

That she should even need to ask…!               The wave of hot anger returned, and he grabbed her by the shoulders. As he tried to kiss her, she pulled away.

“Stop that,” she snapped. “There's nothing between us, you fool! There mustn’t be!”

Only the pressure of the low railing behind his knees kept him from falling. He clutched the window jamb to brace himself. “But you said ... I thought ....”

“A few snatched kisses? When did those ever mean anything? You, of all people, should know that, Tom West.”

“With
you
it was different,” he argued.

By the candlelight, he saw her smile and felt her cool hand touch his cheek. “I'll not say I wasn't tempted. Heaven knows any girl would have been. But be reasonable. What did you have to offer, really, compared to
him
? Other than a few pleasant moments that would be forgotten in the morning.”

“'Compared to 'him'?’” he repeated blankly. Who could she be referring to?

She looked at him as if he were an idiot. “Who do you think brought me to Blackgrave Manor with no references? He was generous, too, for all that he only talks about his hounds and horses. Gave up his favorite snuffbox to save his sister's reputation to make it look like it was a simple robbery. Clever, wasn’t it? I'm the one who suggested it to him.”

Tom stepped back, as if a favorite pet had just turned and sunk its teeth into his hand.

“You ... and Sir Jonathan?” he gulped. After the first shock, he realized it should have been obvious. From the beginning it was clear that she was not like the others. There were a thousand little signs: Jenny's haughty deportment, her presence in parts of the house where she did not belong, her clothing, which was finer than any of the other maids. No wonder Rosie and Campbell had both warned him off! Tom thought miserably. He must have been the only one below stairs who hadn't known.

Jenny's next words confirmed his thoughts. “When we met, I was working in a millinery shop in Salisbury. I'd been sent away by my parents for reasons that need not concern you. He came back the next day and brought me a posy. White lilies and camellias. They were the most beautiful flowers I had ever seen. I’d been resisting till then, but the flowers changed my mind.”

Tom caught his breath. Jonathan Marlowe's laughing words came back to him:
“The young lady had showed some reluctance, but the flowers overcame her objections.”

“That was only the first of the gifts he gave me.” Jenny fingered her throat, unleashing a flash of gold. “I had no future in the town in which he found me, anyway. Once a lass's good name is gone....” She shrugged carelessly. “Things were going perfectly until you came along and nearly ruined everything.”

“Ruined?” Tom shoved aside his growing hurt and, close behind it, anger. “How?”

“If any of the servants had seen us in the white garden, and it had come to his ears....” She shivered, and the flame from the candle quivered as well. “Still, I was curious to find out if what all the other housemaids said was true. I'll admit, I was glad when you were arrested. Another week and I might have forgotten myself and fallen in love with you, and then where would I be?” She pushed against his chest. “You must go, now. Thanks to your foolishness in returning, the danger is greater than ever. If anyone were to see us....”

He swallowed painfully. He had loved her so long that he could not let her go so easily. “But I'm innocent, Jenny! Does that not matter to you?”

“What is that to me?" she said, a new harshness in her voice. "Leave, I say, before they find me with you!”

The truth was more bruising than Lord Marlowe's gold-handled cane, but he couldn't help trying one more time. “But Jenny, don't you care for me? Not at all?”

She put a hand on his cheek again. For a moment, her soft lips drew close, near enough for him to feel her breath on his face. Then her arm fell to her side and her mouth twisted so it was no longer pretty. “Perhaps I could have, once. As things are, a girl in my position must be practical.”

Then she stepped briskly back. “Haven't I made it clear enough? I do not wish to see you, Tom West. Now, or ever. If you do not leave, I shall summon Lord Marlowe myself. You wouldn't want that, would you?” With a toss of her head, she backed into her room, and the sash fell. The flowered curtains whisked briskly back into place.

He stood frozen on the small balcony.

After it sank in that she meant what she said, he remembered that he had nowhere to go. Moreover, if he were found on the premises, he'd be arrested at once, and this time, there would be no escape.

Except that right now, he did not much care.

*     *     *

Tom did not remember climbing back down to the ground. He had never planned past this moment. Jenny was right, he thought dully: coming back to Blackgrave Manor had been a mistake.

“Pssssst!” The sharp whisper came from a nearby shrub. He whirled. Investigating, he found Rosie crouched behind its quivering branches wearing a white nightgown with a shawl around her shoulders. Dark curls poked out from under her nightcap.

The sight of her revived him somewhat, although he was shocked to see her. “Rosie!”

“Shhhh! Be quiet, you fool!” Her small hand darted out and pulled him down beside her. Just then, the moon went behind a cloud, and the world suddenly turned black. He could not see her face, but he felt her fingers prodding his chest. “You're alive! You're here! But they said you'd been hanged!”

“Who told you that?” He lowered his voice to match hers. “Lemley said—”

“’Twas the coal boy. I paid him half a week's wages to track down news of you. The lad said ... he said ....”

He realized that Rosie was sniffling against his shoulder. Astonished, he put his arms around her. She felt as small and warm as a kitten. Her curly hair tickled his cheek.

“It is true,” he said wonderingly. “Three mornings ago, I was on my way to the gallows, but a friend helped me escape. I came back to Blackgrave Manor because—”

“I know. You came back for
her
.” The snappish tone showed she had recovered from her uncharacteristic burst of sentiment. The weight of her forehead lifted from his shoulder. “Well, I hope you've learned at last who your
true
friends are. Thanks to her, you might be dead now!”

“Surely you can't think that Jenny—”

“Can't I? I'll wager she's upstairs now, considering whether it will do her more good to sit silent on the news of your return, or to turn you in again. We've only a few minutes before she decides.”

“But—”

“Here.” Rosie pressed something heavy into his hands. “Campbell helped me collect this. It isn't much, but 'twill help.”

“Campbell?” He seemed to be unable to complete a single sentence tonight. His thoughts were heavy and slow. “But he—”

Rosie interrupted impatiently again. “Did you think Campbell was the one who thrashed you? No, he pulled the others off before they caved in your head. He's the one who suggested to the master that if you was bundled off, far away, instead of being beaten to death on the spot, the news could be kept quiet. Lord Marlowe agreed.”

So Campbell had been an ally, not a traitor. Tom digested this fact. Then he remembered the small bag Rosie had pressed into his in his hand, and suspecting it held much of her meager savings, he gave it to her. “Here, I cannot take this.”

She pushed it back. “There's not much, but 'twill get you back to London. Buy some food with it. You've grown so thin I can feel the bones under your flesh.” Her voice broke off again.