The Gardener (10 page)

“No.” Tom roused himself enough to make his tone firm. He was born to the land. He could not imagine a life where he could not plant his feet on the soil every day.

“Then here's another plan: Australia.”

“
Australia?”
Tom sputtered on the last of his ale.

“All right, then, America, if you prefer. Why not? There, no one will inquire about your background. You can make a fresh start without fear of reprisal. Many have done it before you.”

“But ....” There were a thousand objections, but Tom was too exhausted to think of any except the most obvious. He reached in his pocket and tossed onto the table the small bag Rosie had given him. The shiny guinea, shillings and pence spilled out. “That's all I have in the world. How would I pay the passage?”

Isaac’s eyes lit at the sight of the guinea, but he did not hesitate. “Simple. Find someone to pay your indentures.”

“My ...?”

“Come, you must know how it works. An employer pays your fare in return for your services for certain number of years’ labor. Seven is the usual term. You'll be no worse off than before, and at the end you’ll be free to do as you like. Better still, you'll likely have picked up a new skill to help set you up in life.”

Tom thought about it. Seven years? It was a long time. But he'd been in service before, longer than that, since he was a lad of ten. What was the difference, except at the end he'd be free?

But …
America
? In spite of the injustices he had suffered, how could he throw aside the land of his birth for a savage world of which he knew nothing?

As the ale made him drowsier, however, he wondered dejectedly what remained for him in England, with no references and with a reward hanging over his head. The only alternative was to accept Isaac's offer, and, as grateful as he was, he had absolutely no desire for a life of crime. The short stay in gaol was enough for him. And although Tom liked Isaac's easy charm, it was clear the other man's was loyal only to himself.

America
. A memory niggled at the edges of his brain, vague but insistent. Something had been said during that fateful dinner at Blackgrave Manor, just before he had spilled that platter of fish. What was it? Something about cheap land, about endless opportunities in the New World. Strange as it seemed, perhaps a seed had been planted in his thoughts then, although everything in him rebelled against the idea of leaving the only country he had ever known.

Isaac finished his ale and clapped him on the back. “Never mind. Bertha will find a bed for you, and a bath, and we'll discuss your future in the morning. I haven't given up hope of persuading you to join me in a profitable partnership. Your talents complement mine admirably. But," he added, as Tom began to shake his head, "if you choose my other suggestion, watch yourself on the docks. His Majesty's navy is looking for strong young men to man their ships. If you do not want to go to sea, beware of the impressment gangs.” At that, Isaac twirled his stolen watch on its gold chain and called for the bill. 

Tom buried his head in his hands with a groan. Impressment. Hanging. Indenture. Of the choices laid out before him, the last seemed the least appalling.

America
. Land of savages, wilderness, and rebellion. It appeared, he thought dully, that his choice had been made.

*     *     *

Tom suspected Lord Marlowe would not stand by idly after learning of his escapes, first from prison, then from Blackgrave Manor. After spending several raucous nights at the Blue Boar, however, he nearly forgot the danger. After yet another late night, he went upstairs, kicked off his boots, and fell across the bedstead. The ale had gone to his head, and dreams of Jenny left him sweating, legs tangled in the bedding. As he pulled her to him, however, Jenny's blue eyes widened, and she began to scream. “Tom! Tom!”

It took a few moments for the screams to penetrate his slumber. Confused, he opened bleary eyes as the doors to the bedroom burst open and Flora stumbled in, her thick, nut-brown tresses flowing down her back, clutching a flowered wrapper around her shoulders. “Tom! Tom! Two men downstairs! They're looking for you!”

It took a moment to understand. Then he jumped to his feet, hastily pulled on his trousers and boots, and raced to the window. As he threw up the sash, heavy footsteps tramped up the narrow stairs while Bertha's voice drifted from below.

“Tom West? Why nay, I have never heard the name. See here, ye two! What d'ye think yer doin', bursting into people's rooms without so much as a by-your-leave? I'm a respectable inn-keeper, I am....”

Tom glanced out the gap between sash and sill. The drop to the cobblestones below was two-stories, with nothing to break his fall. He hesitated, and in that moment a rough pair of hands grasped him violently by the shoulders, hauling him backward. “Turn around, scoundrel!" a voice barked in his ear. "You're under arrest!”

He had already determined he would risk death rather than allow himself to be hauled back to prison like a calf led to slaughter. Instinctively, he thrust his elbows back as hard as he could, and felt them connect with something soft. His attacker let out a loud grunt and the grip loosened.

“Grab him, you cursed fool!” a second voice barked from the doorway.

A mangled gasp was the only response Tom heard. Almost simultaneously, a deafening explosion went off, and the room filled with smoke and the smell of gunpowder.

Tom did not hesitate this time. He leapt out the window as another explosion shook the room, and he felt something pluck his shirt. Landing hard on all fours, he winced as his knees and ankles took the brunt of the fall.

For a moment he lay breathless, face pressed against the cold cobblestones, wondering which bones had broken. It felt as if his entire body had shattered into pieces. But he had no time to waste. The third shot might be luckier than the first two.

Pushing himself up with bloodied palms and ignoring a painful stabbing in his right ankle, he hobbled around the corner while Flora's fading voice floated through the open upstairs window, insisting that she had been roused by their knocks, and that Tom had merely been an innocent client.

“The poor fellow was scairt ye'd report his whereabouts to his wife, ye idiots!” she screeched, for the entire neighborhood to hear. “Now ye've blown it, ye have! His lady will beat him black and blue, she will, if ye 'aven't killed the chap already! Lud 'elp us!”

Tom was grateful to Flora for the few moments of extra time as he made his painful escape down the side street. Hatless, coatless, and limping, he was arousing the curious stares of early-morning passersby—fish vendors and milk maids. They’d be able to identify him easily if questioned. His only hope was to put as much distance between himself and the Blue Boar as possible before his two pursuers could shrug off Flora, but his injured ankle made progress was agonizingly slow.

From the low angle of the pale light filtering between the ramshackle buildings, he guessed it was no later than six in the morning. His small lead had already dissipated, and soon he heard quick footsteps behind him.

“There he is! Grab him, you fool!”

As he hobbled faster, Tom wondered why the detective with the pistol did not merely shoot him. Then he realized the narrow street had given way to a more crowded thoroughfare, clogged with pedestrians and carriages, where a shot could easily strike an innocent bystander. Apparently his pursuers did not dare take the risk.

A coachman shouted angrily down to him from atop a passing carriage. “Give way, ye fool! Why are ye gawkin’ an’ holdin’ up traffic?”

Instinctively, he hopped out of the way of its wheels, only to land with his entire weight on his bad ankle. He cried out with agony, just as the carriage rolled between him and his pursuers, blocking him from their view. Ignoring the fresh waves of pain shooting up his leg, he jogged alongside the carriage, maintaining it between him and the detectives.

When the horses slowed briefly as another unlucky pedestrian narrowly missed being trampled by their hooves, Tom jumped behind the door and clung onto the postern, an action he had done a hundred times before, albeit in very different circumstances.

As the carriage bore him away, his heart beating with a mix of fear and triumph, Tom risked a glance behind and saw two islands of gray in the colorful mill of passers-by, features hidden under identical black tricorns. The men turned this way and that, but from the angle of their bodies, it was clear they had not seen him.

Relieved, Tom turned around, holding on tightly, and reviewed his situation. By the time the detectives realized what had happened, he thought with a rush of jubilation, he would be impossible to track down. He looked down from his perch with enjoyment at fruit vendors and chimney sweeps hurrying about their business, oblivious to the drama they had witnessed. Then his gaze swept across a tiny, charred hole in his loose-fitting shirt. He fingered its rough edges, stunned. If the ball had come a half-inch closer....

His light mood dissolved. The detectives had nearly won this round. They might easily win the next.

*     *     *

When the carriage turned into a rich neighborhood near an embankment of the Thames, Tom hopped off and began to plan. He must make his way to Plymouth and board the first ship that would carry him to America. Regretfully he would have no chance to say good-bye to his friends at the Blue Boar, but they, of all people, would understand.

Once the bustle of London was behind him, Tom managed to catch a ride in a passing farmer’s wagon.

As the days passed, his ankle healed except for an occasional twinge, and when he felt in his pocket, his fingers closed around the smooth, reassuring weight of the guinea that Sir Jonathan gave him. Rosie's shillings had disappeared quickly on food, a jacket, and a new hat. Perhaps he’d have done well to hoard his funds longer, Tom mused, but it was too late to worry about that now.

When the smell of salt air and fish told him he was approaching his destination, his spirits rose, but he reminded himself not to let down his guard. The detectives had traced him to the Blue Boar, and they could track him here. Nor had he forgotten Isaac's warning about impressment: if he were seized by a Navy captain, he could be forced to serve aboard a warship against his will. He must try to blend into his surroundings.

Tom reached in his pocket and felt the guinea again, for luck. As he did so, an idea occurred to him. There was no guarantee that it would work…but it was worth a chance.

Chapter Ten

The ginger-bearded American captain puffed on a meerschaum pipe and a heavy eyebrow glided up under the tall, cocked hat as he listened to Tom explain his request. When Tom finished, the captain accepted the heavy coin, dropped it into his pocket, and, giving a curt nod, strode off to give directions to the first mate. Tom patted the empty weight of his own pocket, and felt a brief moment of loss. The guinea had been a sort of good-luck charm. It had remained with him through all his troubles, a bright beacon of hope. Now it was gone. What if his plan didn't work?

Tom reminded himself that the guinea had brought luck, after all. The captain had agreed to keep his presence a secret, although there was a knowing look in the sea-green eye as the other man turned away. If Tom did not sail, no one would buy his indentures, thereby paying his passage. It was in the captain’s interest to help Tom make his escape. Even so, he would not feel at ease until the ship sailed, five days hence.

In the meantime, Tome mingled with the travelers and stevedores who bustled around the docks and found work carrying barrels of pickled herring. This earned him a few coppers and allowed him to hunch under his load, disguising himself amid the scurrying hordes of dock workers. He slept under a pile of hemp nets, which hid him well although they offered little protection from the cold or the sea spray.

On the chilly, damp morning before the ship’s departure, he finally congratulated himself that all was going according to plan. He had outwitted Lord Marlowe and his henchmen!

Then, as Tom warmed his hands at a chestnut-vendor's brazier, he saw them. The pair stood out among the ragtag dockworkers with their sober greatcoats, their keen roving eyes, and their black tricorn hats pulled low over their faces. Lord Marlowe's agents—for he was sure that's who they were—walked slowly along the dock, stopping people to question them, going from ship to ship, talking to each captain in turn.

Tom crouched behind the screen of smoke from the charcoal to survey his pursuers. One was short, stout, and had a short black beard, while the other was tall and rawboned and had a thatch of thick brown hair that stuck out from under his hat. Tom could not be certain they were looking for
him
, of course. For all he knew, there could be plenty of other fugitives roving the docks. But he did not want to be close enough to find out.

The strangers did not give up easily. As Tom struggled to stay out of sight, he watched them wander up and down the dock, checking the passenger lists. When the detectives finished questioning the ginger-bearded captain of the American ship, Tom held his breath until the two men turned away, their faces showing disappointment, and then allowed himself to release a long sigh of relief. The bribe had worked!

But he had relaxed too soon. A man Tom had passed earlier turned and pointed in his direction. Cursing, he darted away, crouching low. A hundred yards of piled boxes, trunks, ropes and stacks of fish separated him from his pursuers. Slowed by their heavy coats and unfamiliarity with the docks, they picked their way through the obstacles.

But Tom knew they would catch up soon enough. It was only a matter of time before someone else pointed them in the right direction again. Casting about for a better place to hide, he found a barrel of dried cod and quickly emptied the contents into the sea, then squished himself inside. Wrinkling his nose against the overwhelming fishy smell, he curled up as tightly as possible, ignoring his long limbs' protest at the cramped space.

After a while—minutes? hours?—he began to regret his choice of hiding place. Not only was it deucedly uncomfortable and hard to breathe, but there was no way to satisfy his curiosity about what was happening outside. Were the men still looking for him? Or had they given up and left?

Eventually he felt an overpowering need to stretch and flex his muscles. Just as he decided he must take his chances, Tom felt a swaying sensation under him and heard a couple of rough voices with thick accents he could scarcely comprehend. It took a moment for the realization to sink in: he was being loaded aboard a ship! And there was no way of telling if, by some inexplicable luck, it was the one he was planning to take to New England or, more likely, one of the dozens bound for other ports. Panicked, he began to thresh around.

“Cor!" exclaimed one of the men. "They said there was a load of smoked fish in this 'ere barrel. Are they still alive, then? Bless my soul! What now, see 'ere!” This last as Tom toppled the barrel, pushed off the cover, and burst out.  He hardly had time to see their startled faces when, with sinking heart, he saw the detectives heading in his direction. They were looking this way and that, and so apparently had not seen his dramatic emerging from the cod barrel. Would they never give up? he wondered.

Tom wove through the crowd again, changing directions at random and climbing over a stacked pyramid of crates until spotting a narrow gap behind the customs building. Perfect! He quickly ducked into the alley.

Flat against the wall, he peered around the corner to scan the dock. The strangers were now approaching the chestnut vendor. One tapped the vendor on the shoulder, and the three engaged in brief conversation. The vendor nodded, then pointed in the direction in which Tom had headed earlier. The two pursuers took off.

Tom let out his breath with relief and withdrew farther into the alley. Surely, the men would soon tire of looking for him and give up.

When he looked cautiously out again a few minutes later, his gaze raked the dock. No pursuers. Grinning, he slipped out and strolled toward the American ship. Best to board now, while it was safe, and remain below decks until the ship began its voyage.

Then Tom's heart beat faster again as he saw the men standing, heads close together, waving their arms animatedly as if arguing with each other. Then one looked up, and his eyes widened as his gaze met Tom's.

Abruptly Tom wheeled about and began running in the opposite direction. In his headlong rush, he collided with something soft and yielding which fell down with a high-pitched cry. Instead of running on, he whirled to see a young woman sprawling in a pile of ropes, displaying frilled petticoats and slender lower limbs.

“Excuse me, miss!” He dropped to his knees with a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Thick chestnut hair spilled out of its pins, while a wide-brimmed straw hat bedecked with pink ribbons went rolling in another direction. After the young woman's first cry of surprise, she began carefully attempting to extricate herself from the ropes.

“Well, since you ask,” she said dryly in a voice with a slightly odd accent, “I do not seem to be able to get out of this. Could you lend me a hand?”

He looked at her curiously. An American, from the way she spoke. Now that he thought of it, her face looked familiar. The chestnut hair was the final clue.  It hardly seemed possible, but this must be the girl who had come to Blackgrave Manor with her father to attend Maeve Marlowe's wedding!

Tom searched his memory for the name and found it. Miss Abigail Woodbury. Lord Corbus's outspoken cousin.

A prickle between his shoulders reminded him he should be fleeing, but he could not bring himself to leave her helplessly caught in the coiled ropes. Automatically he reached down and pulled her easily to her feet. The expression in her wide gray eyes was speculative as they looked up at him. At least, he thought, she did not appear to recognize him.

“What's wrong?” she asked bluntly, as she brushed off her skirts and patted her hair back into order. “Why in such a hurry? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

Her forthrightness surprised him into honesty. “As a matter of fact, yes. Some men—”  He paused to search behind her again. The detectives had disappeared, perhaps behind one of the buildings, although he had no doubt they were still searching for him. He had learned by now they were not the sort to give up. "Some men are, er, attempting to capture me.”

Her gray eyes lit with interest. “Why? Have you done something terribly wrong?”

Then he spotted them.  The two men in greatcoats were weaving their way directly toward him, picking their way over boxes and debris. In a few moments, they would be upon them. Escape was now impossible, he realized. There was only one chance. It was a wild idea, but ….

Tom turned back to Abigail, searching her eyes deeply in the way that had succeeded with many a maid in Lord Marlowe's household. “They think I have done something very wrong, Miss, but I swear, I'm innocent.”

She frowned. “But if—”

“Please believe me! Do not ask the crime I am supposed to have done. It does not matter, as it is all a lie, a story made up by an enemy. I beg you, Miss, help me. Tell them I am in your employ. Tell them ....”

The men were upon them. The short one locked his pale eyes onto Tom like a lion who has spotted his prey. “You, there!" he barked. "You are under arrest. Come with us.”

Tom faced them head-on, putting on his best innocent look. “Who are you addressing, sir? Me?"

The eyes narrowed. “Yes, you! Tom West, former footman at Blackgrave Manor! I have two warrants for your arrest: one on a charge of unlawfully escaping from hanging, and another for assault on a woman.”

Tom was aware of the girl's sharp intake of breath. Desperately thinking of how to respond, he heard her voice ring out, strong and clear.

“What nonsense is this? This is my servant, Rufus Smith. He has been in my family's employ for over ten years. My father will vouch for him, gentlemen, if you do not believe me.”

The shorter man turned his light-colored eyes on her. “Impossible," he said coldly. "We know perfectly well who this man is. We have pursued him all the way from London.”

Abigail looked over the detective's shoulder and her gray eyes widened. “Father! These men say that our Rufus is someone else. How dare they try to take him from us now, just as our ship is about to leave? What can it mean? Help, Father, help!” She put the back of her hand to her forehead, and her eyes fluttered shut.

Tom thought uncomfortably that the American's histrionic skills were not all they should be—she would never have made a living on the stage—but just as she fell, a distinguished, white haired gentleman appeared and caught her in his arms. He directed a puzzled look from under shaggy brows at Tom, and then at the two detectives.

“What is all this?” Although he looked stunned, he gamely faced Tom while holding his apparently swooning daughter. “What is this, er, Rufus? Have you got in some trouble with these gentlemen?”

“No, Mr. Woodbury,” Tom answered promptly. “It appears they have mixed me up with some other fellow.”

Mr. Woodbury hid his look of surprise quickly that Tom knew his name. The American turned toward the pursuers, feigning anger. He was a far better actor than his daughter. “Well, what more proof do you need, my good men? How would this fellow know my name if he were not in my employ?”

“How do we know you are Mr. Woodbury?” sneered the taller one. “That could be a false name, and you may be his accomplice.”

The American raised his square chin and pulled back his shoulders. “I shall overlook your insult because of your ignorance,” he said coolly. “Here." From his pocket, Mr. Woodbury plucked an official-looking letter complete with a broken wax seal. "Look at this, sir. My letter of introduction, issued by John Adams, the American ambassador to the Court of St. James.”

He read aloud: “'Please accept with greatest honors and courtesy the bearer of this letter, Mr. Miles Woodbury of Cambridge, guest of the American delegate to the Court of Saint James, recently introduced to His Majesty George III, along with his spinster daughter, Abigail ....’”

“Let me see that.” The short agent snatched the letter and perused it. Gradually the sneer on his face disappeared, and after a few moments, he handed it back, pockmarked face crestfallen.

“Does that satisfy you?” Mr. Woodbury inquired calmly, pocketing the letter again. “Now it is your turn to defend yourselves, gentlemen. What evidence have you that this is the man you seek?”

“He matches exactly the description given by our employer, Lord Marlowe.” The taller man looked uncertain, however. “You can see yourself, he is a big man, by far the tallest man on the wharf.”

“You would convict a man based only on his height? Is that all the proof you can provide?” Mr. Woodbury adjusted his brass-rimmed spectacles and peered through them sharply. “I have heard much criticism of English injustice on my side of the Atlantic, and unless you can do better than that, I am inclined to believe it is true.”

“But he ran when he saw us. Does that not prove he is an outlaw?”

“He ran, I am sure. If his employer had told him to be back before the tide turned so they would not miss their ship's departure, should a servant not run?”

“Then you swear he is not the man we seek?”

“My daughter has told you his identity. That should be good enough, unless you mean to insult this young lady's truthfulness as well?”

The two detectives looked at each other uncomfortably. Abigail moaned slightly and her eyes fluttered open. “Papa ... are the horrible men still harassing our poor Rufus?”

The short man reluctantly touched the brim of his hat and performed a curt bow. “Very well, then, we shall trouble you no further. My apologies to you all. Good day, sir.” He bowed to Abigail. “Good-afternoon, Miss Woodbury.”