The Gardener (14 page)

Radstone did not seem to notice the new indentured servant's lack of sociability, nor did the others. Henry continued to chatter away without listening for a response, while Miss Radstone hardly said a word, fading away like a wraith whenever he approached. When she thought he could not see her, however, she would stop in dark corners and watch him through the long strings of her hair, a fact which annoyed him, although he did his best to ignore it.

Tom had always been on the lanky side, but working in the forge was changing that. He soon outgrew his old shirt, and Betty, unasked, provided him with a new one, an act of kindness that surprised him for, ever since their first conversation, the black cook had treated him coolly. She had apparently resolved to fill Tom's few spare hours with as many minor tasks as possible, ordering him to drive the cart to market when Henry was busy with the animals, to beat the carpets, or to sweep out the pantry. Tom thought resentfully that she was making a point by assigning him the lowest chores she could think of.

He refused to give her the satisfaction of defying her openly, however. That would only acknowledge what everyone knew: Betty was the real power in the household. Radstone cared only about the forge. His daughter, Mabel, was weak. Therefore the running of the household fell to the capable hands of the cook.

At night, staring up at the rough-beamed ceiling whose wood patterns he was coming to know well, Tom grimly reviewed his situation. He felt like Joseph in the old Bible story. Not the part about Potiphar's wife—he winced, for that tale struck too close to home—but the first part, when Joseph had first been sold into Egypt by his brothers. Instead of grumbling about his fate, the Israelite lad had worked his best and waited patiently, and as a result, he had been rewarded.

Maybe, Tom thought hopefully, shifting on his too-small cot, trying to find a comfortable position, if he too bore his lot without complaint, better days would come. It was a weak spark of hope, but the rest of the week he fanned it to keep it alive. After all, hadn’t Isaac promised him that someday he would be free? Seven years wouldn't last forever.

*     *     *

As if sensing Tom's thoughts, Radstone surprised him one day by praising his progress.

“You're coming along,” he admitted as they cleaned up before heading to the huge midday meal Betty had spent all morning preparing. He took a swig of water from a jug and wiped his brow with his hairy forearm, sending sweat droplets flying. “One day you'll be a fine blacksmith. You've certainly the hands for it.”

Tom held out his big soot-streaked hands and studied them. They were as they had always been, large-knuckled and calloused, but now they were covered with an array of cuts and burns in varying stages of healing. Radstone's words reminded him of something Lemley had said long ago.
“You've magic in your fingers.”

He could almost hear the old man's voice, and a sense of home-sickness swept over him, stronger than ever. He missed England. He missed his friends, the soft glances of the pretty housemaids, his status in the great house. At the thought, Tom balled his hands into fists of rage and despair.

At the same time, he knew he did not have to feel so alone here. The truth was, his pride had not allowed him to befriend Henry, whom he found stupid and tiresome, and the daughter of the house seemed like a ghost who fled from him whenever he approached. As for the master—Tom could muster nothing but loathing for Radstone, who seemed little better than an animal.

There was only one person Tom respected, and, ironically, he had made her his enemy. He regretted his early show of disrespect, for over the past few months, he had realized that Betty worked harder than the rest of them put together, rising to cook and bake before the sun rose, scrubbing and boiling the laundry and hanging it out to dry, and going to bed long after the others, with little thanks from any of them. Except, that is, for Miss Mabel Radstone, who acted as the older woman's shadow—or lapdog.  It was ironic, Tom thought critically, that Betty's dignity and self-confidence made her the real mistress of the house, rather than the feeble and weak-willed master's daughter.

Judging from the cook's aloofness, however, she had not forgotten his rude words when they had first met. When her dark eyes fell on him, Tom wondered if she sensed the resentment and anger that simmered under his carefully constructed air of obedience, although he had done everything he could to mask his rebelliousness. The first few weeks, he had lived in fear that she would find a way to use this knowledge against him. How easy it would have been for her to use her power to undermine him, and make his life even more miserable than it was. A few words to the master, a rumor of disloyalty…. But to his relief, Betty continued to treat him with cool courtesy, although she spoke to him only when necessary and ignored him the rest of the time, except when she sent him on those dozens of little errands which, he suspected, she invented to keep him busy.

As the months passed, Tom began to grow accustomed to the rhythms and ways of the household. He might not be happy, but at least his misery had lessened. The seven years would pass, one way or another, he knew, and one day at last his life would be his own again. He lived for that day.

*     *     *

One day Radstone closed the smithy early and went away on business, and Tom found himself stopping by the kitchen although he had no real reason to be there. He found Betty in her usual place, apron around her large waist, chopping vegetables for supper. She looked up suspiciously as he entered.

“What you want?”

A slight emphasis on the “you” did not bode well. Stalling for time, Tom looked around the room for some excuse to be there. “The smithy is closed, and Henry is in town," he said at last. "Have you any work for me?”

She studied him expressionlessly. After a moment, she nodded toward an empty bucket in the corner. “I can use more water.”

When he had refilled the bucket from the cistern and brought it back, Tom lingered inside the doorway again until Betty set down her butcher knife, turned, and placed her hands on her plump hips. “All right, what is it now?”

“I told you,” Tom mumbled. “I have got nothing to do. Mr. Radstone doesn't want me working the smithy when he's not there to oversee it.”

“Nothing to do?” she repeated, eyebrows rising under the cloth that covered her head. “All right then, why not just have a seat over there, then, like a great English Lord, and watch us low 'uns do the work?”

Wincing at her sarcasm, he pulled up a chair and sat on it backward, chin resting on his arms, which were crossed over the top. He watched her quarter carrots and onions and throw the pieces into the fire-blackened cooking pot with smooth, efficient movements of her strong fingers.

“You know,” he said suddenly, “This ....” he waved a hand around the room … “is very different than what I have been used to. I never wanted to come here in the first place, you know.”

She darted a look at him, but her plump hands did not slow their work. After a moment, she said, “When I was a girl, as I recall, no one asked me if I wanted to come here neither. And I 'spect my travelin' quarters were not so fine as yours.”

She said no more. Tom remembered the platform on the other side of the New Jersey dock, where the Africans had been put up to auction, the children's gaunt bodies, and the sickening smell from the other ship. For some reason, he'd assumed Betty had lived forever with the Radstones, although there was a trace of an accent in her words. Henry had once told him that the cook was not a slave, but a freewoman. But perhaps she had not always been free.

He did not dare ask, but the silence was no longer tense. There seemed to be a common bond between them. Betty finished filling the cauldron and hung it on a hook over the hot coals. By suppertime, the stew would be piping hot, the flavors blended into one of the plain but hearty meals at which Betty excelled. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved across the room, where she picked up a basket of sewing and sat in a rocking chair to mend a pile of stockings. It occurred to Tom he had never seen her sit. It seemed Betty was always standing at the fire stirring the pot, or hovering over the thick, pine dining table serving dishes when the family took their meals.

As her fingers threaded a needle, she looked up with shrewd coffee-brown eyes. “So go ahead and tell me.”

“About what?”

“What you been wanting to tell me. Who are you, Tom West? And what brings you here, where you think you do not belong?”

Caught off guard, he answered truthfully. “I worked as a footman in a big house.”

She was not impressed. “
This
is a big house.”

He almost smiled. “Not like that one. That one was bigger than all these buildings put together. The house, the kitchen, the forge, the stables, all of them would have fit inside the ballroom alone.”

Betty's hands paused, needle poised in thin air. “Is that why you felt free to give yourself such airs when you arrived? Let me tell you something, child. I'd rather live in a mud hut than a palace, long as I had my freedom.”

She threw the unfinished mending back in the basket and stood up. Tom wondered if he had offended her yet again. But her posture indicated their conversation was over, and reluctantly, he left. It occurred to him suddenly that there was more to Betty than he had realized … and that he had so far not bothered to find out what it was. He could not wait to learn more—if she would let him.

*     *     *

He was on his way to work in the gray early-morning light when he saw Betty outside the kitchen, hunched over the small bed of straggling flowers. He paused to watch. So she was the one who had planted the small garden and fought to keep it alive. He should have known: who else would have tried to create a spot of beauty to the dreary courtyard? Certainly not Mr. Radstone, who cared for nothing outside his forge. Nor Henry, nor Miss Radstone, who had neither the energy or the imagination.

What caught his attention most was the tender expression on Betty's wide face as she carefully poured a trickle of water around the roots of each flower, like a mother bathing her children. The plants were varieties he hadn't seen elsewhere: some were tall, weed-like plants with lavender petals that had a pleasant mint-like odor, and the others were bushy plants, lower to the ground, with long leaves and pretty blue petals.

Something stirred inside him.

The next morning, he woke an hour earlier than usual. The ground on the far side of the courtyard had never been tilled; the earth was as dry and hard as rock. He poured bucket after bucket of water onto it until the soil softened, then broke it into clumps with a hoe. Next, he dug up each spindly plant and transplanted it in the new bed. Finally he brought a load of rotted leaves from under the old walnut tree which no one had troubled to rake away last fall, and laid them several inches thick about the roots. After looking down with satisfaction at his handiwork, he went to wash up.

*     *     *

Tom was not present when Betty came outside that morning. But when he went to the kitchen for lunch, she gave him a sharp look, and as she dished out the soup, he felt her large frame quivering with curiosity, although she said nothing. He bent over his wooden bowl and ate greedily. The broth tasted more savory than usual.

The transplanted flowers perked up immediately, lending a welcome splash of blue and purple to the ugly clay wall. They were common plants, hardly more than weeds, nothing like Lady Marlowe's celebrated roses, but they brought a smile to Tom's face whenever he saw them. Betty's speculative eyes followed him all that week, but he ignored her, whistling to himself as he went about his chores.

Surprisingly, it was Miss Mabel Radstone who first commented on the change after he stumbled across her in the stable, quite literally. It was evening, and the heat of the day had lessened. The setting sun cast long stripes across the floor as he made his way to the ladder that led to the loft. Tom did not see the small crouched figure until he tripped over her.

“Oh! Tom, it's you!”

He recognized the high, thready voice at once. “Miss Radstone! Are you all right?” He reached down to pull her up. Her thin wrist felt like it could snap between his fingers. “What are you doing?”

“The sow had her litter last night. I was looking at the little ones. They're so tiny and helpless when they're newborn.”

He looked at her in surprise. He hadn't known she was capable of putting more than two words together. As if aware of his astonishment, she relapsed into silence, eyes cast down.

He glanced over at the big sow. The pig lay on her side in the muck while a row of tiny pink creatures tugged at her belly, blind, famished, and helpless, crawling over each other in their desperate search for milk.

“Miss Radstone, aren't you afraid that …. “ He gestured at her cotton frock. Miss Maeve Marlowe would never have been caught near the stables. She had always insisted her dappled mare be brought to the steps of the manor so the hem of her expensive riding habit would not drag in the mud.

Mabel looked down at herself and brushed at her skirts. “Oh, I do not mind a bit of dirt. I'm a country girl at heart, really. Papa used to be a farmer, you know, when all the other houses around here started going up. But there was such a need for a blacksmith, he decided to take it up.”

He looked down at her, astonished that they were actually having a conversation. Perhaps the homely little creature was more than a ghost after all. But he could think of nothing more to say, and so he bowed formally. “Very well. I wish you a good evening, Miss Radstone.” He turned to go.