The Gardener (30 page)

After Mabel Rose skipped away to join her brothers with their three puppies, the offspring of Cromwell and the Muller’s mixed-breed bitch, Abigail fixed Tom with a curious look.

Suspecting his face showed his emotions, he struggled to control it. Slowly, the words stumbled out. “Do you remember, Abigail, I told you long ago that I ran away from indentures in Providence?” He spat the word "indentures" as if pronouncing a curse.

"Yes, my dear. I know."

Tom rarely spoke about that part of his past, but he suspected Abigail knew more about it than he thought. It was one of the secrets they shared, along with his escape from Blackgrave Manor. The Northwest Territory had seemed a perfect place to leave the past behind and start over, but now the specter of the past had risen again. Would it ever leave him alone?

"As a member of such a prominent delegation," he said, "I will be asked about my background. The truth is bound to come out. When I arrive back east, I could be arrested and forced back into servitude.”

Abigail came toward him and slipped her arms around his waist. “A man so ingenious cannot think of the solution?” she said, voice smiling as she tilted her head back to look in his eyes. “It is simple, dearest. Pay off Mr. Radstone. We haven’t much cash after improving the house, but surely we can sell a few acres of land. Prices are up; it should not be difficult. Send him the money he believes he is owed for your services, and that will be the end of it. You will be safe while you are away.”

Radstone didn’t deserve to be compensated for his treachery, Tom thought, and Abigail's solution would not come cheap. But his spirits lifted as he realized Abigail's suggestion would certainly pose an end to the problem. Of course, money could not be sent directly to Mr. Radstone; the blacksmith had proven he could not be trusted. However Mrs. Parker's son-in-law, Mr. Merkel, was an attorney. That honorable man could draw up the papers and make sure things were taken care of legally.

“While
we
are away,” Tom corrected her, kissing the top of Abigail’s head. “Surely you do not expect me to leave my family behind? Perhaps we can even persuade your father to join us in Washington.”

*     *     *

The trip to the capital city was much easier than the long trip west. In the past years new roads had been built and bridges thrown across rivers. Although their children scrambled over them laughing and screaming in the carriage, and causing general havoc, they arrived in the new capital city with little more than the usual problems of travel.

Tom installed his family in a rented house which had been built quickly and cheaply and was not as snug as their little house in Zanesville, but the children set to exploring its grounds with enthusiasm while Abigail planted rose cuttings, sewed curtains, and made it into a home.

To his surprise, Tom enjoyed working for Mr. Putnam. It was the first time he realized that working for another man did not necessarily entail a servile relationship. The older man listened to his ideas with interest and directed the scrivener and assistant who shared their office to help Tom.

Within the month, he was further astonished to receive a letter in the mail bearing the seal and address of the President’s House. For several moments he stared at it numbly. Surely there was some mistake…. But no, that was his name, in bold black ink, and that was the president’s address on Pennsylvania Avenue. And inside…. He pulled out the crisp white card and stared with disbelief at the words written on it.

*     *     *

“An invitation to a reception with the president?” he asked Putnam the next day, showing him the card. “But why? Surely there are more important people in Washington than a mere surveyor’s assistant—a former farmer from the Ohio territories! How could he even have heard of me?”

The other man shrugged. “With all his accomplishments, Mr. Jefferson considers himself a farmer first. Perhaps the president wants to exchange ideas on mulching and harrowing.” Putnam strode away on his short, plump legs, chuckling.

Unamused, Tom went out and bought the best frock coat he could find. The night of the reception, he straightened his neck cloth with an exaggerated care that caused Abigail to giggle, and he pointedly turned his back on her as he straightened his new beaver hat.

Tom expected Jefferson’s reception to be a formal occasion, attended by hundreds of important guests. When he arrived at the nearly completed Executive Mansion, however, he joined a handful of guests clustered in the large hall, chatting. It was apparent from their varied backgrounds they had been chosen more for their interest to Jefferson than for their status.

Although he did his best to join the conversation, his attention was drawn to a well-stocked bookcase in the corner, and he wandered over to peruse its contents. He was impressed by the breadth of subject matter, but froze when he saw a familiar-looking title: "A Practical Treatise on Husbandry, Etc."

He reached out his hand to touch it, hardly believing his eyes, when a voice startled him.

"Well, Mr. West! It appears you have found one of my favorite books!"

Tom whirled to find a tall, rugged-looking man smiling at him, graying reddish hair pulled back into a queue. "My friend John Adams and I have discussed its suggestions often, both of us being farmers," Jefferson continued. "I hear you are a farmer as well, in what will soon be the new state of Ohio."

"Yes, sir." Tom cleared his throat and met the deep-set hazel eyes, as if he were accustomed to being addressed as an equal by the leader of the country who had figuratively spit in the eye of King George. Not only that, but the writer of a bold, remarkable document called the Declaration of Independence, a letter which had driven Lord Marlowe and his peers to fury when discussing it at one of those magnificent dinner parties at Blackgrave Manor.

A servant handed them wine glasses, and beads of perspiration sprang onto Tom's forehead as his fingers closed around the stem. Little did Jefferson know that the man he was addressing once had performed a similar duty elsewhere.

Jefferson strolled with Tom to the table that had been laid for dinner, and continued speaking casually as the guests seated themselves and the dishes were served.

“It has always been my belief, young man, that those who labor in the earth are the chosen people of God, if ever He had a chosen people.” The president’s mouth tightened and his eyes flashed. “Which makes it a particular insult to see the sad state of the grounds around this Executive Mansion, a house upon which my predecessor, John Adams, prayed for the blessings of Heaven to fall. As a planter, Mr. West, you must have noticed their abysmal condition.”

Tom
had
noticed that the large, stately house was surrounded by little more than trampled mud. “Do you have plans to improve the grounds, then, sir?” he asked.

“I do indeed. And to beautify the capital city as well, if I can persuade Congress to allot me the funds.” Jefferson’s rugged face brightened. “I intend to plant trees, shrubs, and flowers native to our American soil throughout Washington. That is why I invited you to our gathering, Mr. West! My surveyor general tells me you are a farmer in our new territories. Perhaps you could suggest some plants suitable for the project.”

The President of the United States asking for his advice! Tom was speechless. However his mind immediately sprang into action as he visualized a number of attractive wild bushes and flowers that flourished in New Jersey and in Ohio. A vision of lush gardens incorporating those plants entered Tom's head until, belatedly, he realized Jefferson was waiting for a response.

“It is an excellent idea, sir, if I may say so. I would be honored to do whatever I can to help.”

Jefferson looked pleased. “Then perhaps you can provide me a list of native plants arranged according to their forms and colors and the seasons in which they flourish.” The president paused. “There is another question which perhaps you can help me to answer as well.”

“Certainly, Mr. Jefferson.”

“It is this: the heat in the summer makes Pennsylvania Avenue nearly unbearable to walk along. What would you think of my planting an avenue of willow oaks to shade it? They have always been my favorite trees.”

“A wonderful idea, sir,” Tom said enthusiastically. “But it will be years before they attain sufficient size to provide shade. Why not plant faster growing trees in the meantime? Lombardy Poplars, for instance.” He remembered the beauty of the towering trees lining the formal avenue that led up to Blackgrave Manor. “They are not native to America, but they are very impressive.”

“Are they as tall as you, then, young man?” The lady next to him said archly, peering at him through a lorgnette. “I’d say that
you and the president
make a fine pair of Lombardy poplars. Perhaps you could both stand outside the house and shade the passers-by.”

The joke was helped by the fine wine that had been served in abundance, and everyone at the table laughed. Jefferson made a self-deprecating comment about his own considerable height of six feet two inches being dwarfed by Tom’s even greater height, which raised another, louder round of laughter. Then the president turned back to Tom, refusing to be distracted. “Well, Mr. West, where can I come by a few dozen of these trees?”

“They are easily obtained in England, sir. They are very common there.”

“Excellent.” Jefferson clapped Tom heavily on the shoulder, making him jump. “I hereby appoint you to travel to England and purchase forty poplars for me of the same height. I have a delegation sailing soon, and you can join them. You will transport the trees as soon as arrangements can be made.”

Before Tom could respond, Jefferson turned to converse with the guest on his other side, and it was too lat
e
.

*     *     *

Over the ensuing week, Tom wondered if he should try to back out of the president’s unexpected request. Go to England? It had been hard enough to come to Washington! Tom had been assured that soon he could return home soon, like Cincinnatus, the Roman leader who had been called away to do his duty to his country but then returned to his plow.

Still.… Surprisingly, the thought of returning to England tempted him. Tom had never forgotten his beautiful native land, and in spite of the events that marred the last few months, he had many pleasant memories of its cool green shores. It would be a pleasure to lay eyes on England again, he thought. But a trip across the ocean meant months more away from the farm.

An old fear now crept out of the back of his brain. What if after all these years Lord Marlowe and his agents had not forgotten him? Thanks to Abigail’s suggestion, Tom had managed to pay off Mr. Radstone, who grudgingly released any claim on Tom’s indentures. Lord Marlowe would not be so easily dealt with.

Nevertheless Tom’s reason scoffed at his fear. A decade had passed since he’d left England. Miss Marlowe was long since married, her rash accusations perhaps forgotten. Lord Marlowe would have other things on his mind than a long-ago incident involving a faceless servant who had disappeared.

Most of all, how could Tom refuse a personal request by the president of the United States?

After a series of sleepless nights, he told Abigail his decision.

*     *     *

“No!” Abigail’s gray eyes flashed. “I don’t care what President Jefferson said. You mustn’t go back to England.”

“What?” Tom stared at his wife’s stubborn face. Never had she tried to hold him back from anything he wished to do, or even things he did not wish to do. Hadn’t she encouraged him to leave his beloved farm and come to Washington? So why was Abigail resisting now?

"Is it because of the children? Or the new baby?” he asked, glancing at her rounded belly. “I told you, you can stay. Your father will care for you until I return.”

She turned away so all he could view was the ruffled lace cap covering most of her chestnut hair. “It is nothing to do with that.” Her voice sounded muffled.

Thinking he understood, Tom turned her around. “If you’re worried about Lord Marlowe’s retribution, do not worry," he said soothingly. "Even if he remembers who I am, which is unlikely, I shall be traveling as part of the American delegation. He'd never dare lay a hand on me.” Tom hoped that were true.

“It is not that, either.” She raised her pale face to his, her eyes swimming in tears. “Simply put, I do not believe you have ever got England out of your system, Tom. I'm afraid that if you go…."

His arms tightened around her waist. Bending his head, he whispered in her ear, “You fear I'll never come back?”

When she did not respond, he felt relief. Was that all that worried her? Certainly matters from his past continued to haunt him, reappeared regularly in his dreams. Nevertheless, Tom had found happiness and success in America he'd never known in the land of his birth. Why should he not return?

He told her this, emphatically, until finally she nodded and wiped the tears from her reddened eyes, as if ashamed at her weakness.

“I will return to you, Abigail. I swear it.”

Her back straightened. “Very well, then, Tom." Her voice shook. "I shan’t stand in your way.”

*     *     *

On the day of departure, Tom stood outside their rented house, holding Abigail close for a long time. He buried his face in her soft hair, inhaling her familiar scent of roses and wood smoke. How hard to believe once he had nearly left her behind in Cambridge! But then, he had been a different man, stubborn, fiercely independent, fighting with all his will against allowing her or anyone else into his life — even though, deep inside, he knew that if he did, Abigail Woodbury would change it for the better. And she had.