The Gardener (18 page)

“You're not.”

Tom looked at Radstone. His gut clenched and a wave of perspiration sprang out under his collar.
What did he mean by that?

Tom tried to speak calmly. “You knew that I was planning to leave before.... before....” He took a deep breath and plunged on. “My plans have not changed.”

“
Everything
has changed,” Radstone countered, hanging up his hammer and removing his leather apron.

“But ....”

“The forge is busier than ever. Henry is an incompetent fool, and I haven't the time or patience to train a replacement. I have invested three years in you already, and you are just now becoming worth your keep.”

Tom could no longer control his long-banked anger. “You have no right to stop me,” he snapped. “I'm no longer indentured to you.”

“No?” Radstone's thick-lipped smile grew broader.

Tom felt his face grow tight. “What do you mean? You said you would tear up the papers ....”

“Did you really think I would do something so foolish?”

“But you said that when I married Mabel—“

“While Mabel was alive, we had an agreement. Mabel is dead now.”

“But ....” Tom shook his head to clear it. He could not believe his ears. “You gave me your word.”

“I did, and my promise was valid as long as you were married to my daughter.”

“But you gave me your word ....” He was repeating himself, stupidly.

Radstone's smile vanished, replaced by a threatening scowl. “You fool! I paid for your crossing from England. I trained you and fed you until you were finally of value to me, and now you expect me to just let you walk away?” The blacksmith's bulk blotted out the light from the small window. “I
paid
for you. Every mouthful of food you've eaten and every thread on your back. If you refuse to stay, I shall thrash you within an inch of your life. Do not have the impertinence to bring up the subject again.”

Tom's face felt as if it were melted onto his skull, like glass on a blowing tube. “You cannot keep me here,” he said unsteadily. “I have already bought my wagon, my supplies. I shall leave tomorrow, with or without your permission.”

“And I shall advertise to have you brought back, dragged by the bollocks if necessary. In fact, I shall insist on it. As for the wagon....” Radstone smiled again, a ripple of his heavy features. “I ordered it sold. Do not worry, I shall add the proceeds to your last month's wages, when your indentures are up in five years.”

Tom shook his head, dazed. “But I'm your son-in-law, your heir! Why would you do this to me?”

“Did I not make it clear that relationship no longer exists? You have no choice but to obey. Now get out.”

Tom could not control his mouth enough to speak. His hands opened and clenched helplessly. Then, as if sleepwalking, he turned and walked out.

He found himself walking past the entrance to the courtyard, past the staring, slack-jawed Henry, into the street. His legs kept walking, as if they had a mind of their own. He had no idea where he was going, or why, nor did he care. All he knew was he must get away from the house, as far away as possible, before he strangled the other man.

So Radstone had sold the strong horses that Tom had selected with such care and paid to have boarded until he was ready for them, had gotten rid of the custom-built wagon, with the barrels of seed and tools already lashed to the sides? He pictured himself wrapping his hands around Radstone’s neck and squeezing until the older man's eyes bulged and his tongue lolled out of his fleshy mouth, kicking the villain's ribs until his skin burst and blood gushed out. And then....

Tom had never before indulged in violent fantasies, but for several moments he allowed himself to wallow in dreams of revenge. When he roused himself, he found that, in the blindness of rage, his feet had brought him to the heart of Providence. Coaches and people in city clothes bustled in every direction, while straight ahead rose a familiar neat red-brick building with a polished brass plaque.

“If you should ever need anything, Tom, remember we are here.”

Mrs. Parker had come to visit him several times since his marriage. She had befriended Mabel and knitted baby clothes which had gone unused, and attended the funeral. The kindly woman could not help him, but her son-in-law was a lawyer. Maybe
he
could do something.

As Tom pushed the door open, Mr. Merkel looked up with a smile of recognition and set aside the document he had been perusing. “Tom, my dear lad! What a pleasant surprise!” Then he saw the look on Tom's face, and his smile fell away. He stood. “I know you are still suffering from your tragic loss. Please accept my most sincere condolences.”

Tom acknowledged the words with a curt nod. “That's not what brings me here.”

Mr. Merkel studied him closely. “Would you prefer to go upstairs?” he said after a moment. “I can lock the door if you like.”

“There is nothing that cannot be told here.”

Mr. Merkel gestured at the chair across from his desk, and Tom took it. The silence lengthened. “Is it my legal services you require?” Mr. Merkel asked at last, taking off his spectacles. “Or my services as a friend?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Mr. Radstone,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “promised me he would free me from my indentures after I married his daughter.”

Mr. Merkel's eyes filled with sudden comprehension. “Ah.”

Tom realized the other man must know about the circumstances of his sudden marriage. Perhaps it did not reflect well on Tom why he had agreed to wed the master's daughter, but he did not feel the need to explain that his feelings for Mabel had changed over the past year. That was no one's business but his own.

“Mr. Radstone feels he is no longer obligated to live up to his agreement.” Tom's voice was rough. “I wondered if, as his lawyer, he might have left with you some document that would—”

“That would prove your case?” Mr. Merkel's pale hands played with the papers on his desk, as his forehead creased with thought. “I am sorry, dear fellow, but I have nothing that will help you. Mr. Radstone may have intended to do as he told you, but with nothing in writing, it cannot be enforced. It is your word against his. And unfortunately…."

“As an indentured servant, my word is worth nothing.” Tom's words burst forth bitterly.

“You must go back.” Mr. Merkel's tone was kind but firm. “I sympathize with your situation, but unfortunately, the law is on his side. If you leave, he could have you brought back and horsewhipped, even put to death. Think of it, Tom. You have only five years left on your contract. Surely you can wait.”

“I have waited long enough. I can wait no longer.”

But his words were empty, and they both knew it. Tom sensed Mr. Merkel rise from his chair, accepted the other man's handshake, and turned blindly toward the door, too dejected even to put on his hat. He heard his host offer an invitation to Sunday supper, but made no response. Without Mr. Radstone's permission, he could not attend anyway. As it was, he faced punishment for having come today.

But when he arrived home, Mr. Radstone did not confront him right away. Perhaps the master sensed, rightly, that Tom might turn on him like a dangerous beast. Henry stayed away as well, unusually sensitive to the undercurrents of tension, staring at Tom from a distance as if afraid of him. As for Betty, Tom sensed her unvoiced sympathy. Since his marriage, the black cook had in some ways become the ally he had hoped for, but now even she could do nothing to comfort him.

Over the next few days he threw himself back into his work, speaking to no one. Perhaps sensing the fury that raged in him, the others continued to leave him alone.

Only Betty finally dared to approach him. The fire of the forge had been doused for the evening, and Tom was standing at the edge of the courtyard, hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring at the setting sun, which glowed like a disk of fired iron just over the wall.

“Tom.” Her voice was smooth and comforting as warm honey. “Mr. Radstone has done you wrong. And you've lost your wife and child. You have every right to be angry at the world. But do not let resentment eat your soul.”

It was as if he hadn't heard her.

“She loved you,” Betty said, coming closer. She reached out and laid her hand on his shoulder. The pressure of her fingers was warm and heavy. “It should bring you some comfort that you brought Mabel happiness for the first time in her life. Doesn't that make everything worth it?”

“What about
my
happiness? Doesn't that matter?” His voice was a snarl. He shrugged away her hand.

“You was almost happy too, for a while.” Her voice deepened, gentler than ever. “Go ahead, hate Mr. Radstone all you want. But do not be angry at my Mabel. Remember, you no worse off now than you was before.”

Without responding, he turned and walked away.

*     *     *

Tom had moved his things back into the barn, uncomfortable with the memories in that small room under the eaves, with Mabel’s slippers under the bed, her hat hanging on the wall, and the rug she had woven from rags covering the floor. If he had not moved out of his own accord, he wondered if Mr. Radstone would have done it for him.  It did not matter. He couldn’t bear living under the same roof as his master, even if the painful memories had not sufficed to make him leave.

His initial numbness had turned to hate. Nights were filled with violent fantasies in which Mabel's face blurred with her father's, and he woke up with teeth clenched, the blanket tangled on the floor, and his hands knotted painfully into tight fists.

He had only one purpose, a goal that kept him moving through his daily duties although it was half-formed, unspoken, and buried so deep that he scarcely realized it was there. Then one day, when Mr. Radstone was away, Tom left his chores half-finished and headed outside.

Betty gave him a strange look as he passed by.

“Tom? Now, do not go do nothin' foolish ….”

He paid her no attention. He only knew that if he stayed another minute, he’d go mad and begin flinging dishes and furniture around the room, punch his fist through the plastered wall.

She followed him out the door and stood on the step, looking after him. “Where you going?”

He owed her at least the courtesy of an answer. He turned briefly and met her gaze. “I don't know.”

It was the truth. He had no plan in mind. As if sleep-walking, he went to the stable and retrieved the precious package he'd hidden once more under his bed. Then he put on his hat, pulled on his old brown coat, and strode out the gate.

“Tom! Tom!”

He ignored Betty's call, hardly aware of it. With no idea of a destination he kept walking, conscious only of the need to keep moving. He had gone more than a mile before he realized that his footsteps were taking him where they had once before, a place of comfort and safety. This time, however, he did not go through the office door, but headed toward the outer steps to the upstairs apartment.

Last time, Mr. Merkel had admitted he could not help him. Tom knew that even if he did, the lawyer would be endangering his livelihood and therefore his family. He could not ask him to make such a sacrifice, but he could not leave without saying goodbye to Mrs. Parker, his oldest and best friend on the continent.

It was Martha Merkel who opened to his knock, pretty as ever under her starched mobcap, her stomach swelling with the soon-to-be newest member of the large Merkel brood. Her bright-blue eyes lit up. “Mr. West!”

“Hello, Martha. Is Mrs. Parker here?”

“Why, yes. Mother!”

Mrs. Parker bustled in. The older woman took one look at him and her smiling face turned serious, as if she knew everything that had transpired without being told. “Say nothing,” she told Tom quickly. “Martha, dear, fetch a napkin and fill it with food. Bread, bacon, cheese, as much as will fit.”

Martha obeyed, with a startled backward look as she left the room.

“So it's true,” Mrs. Parker said, her face uncharacteristically solemn. “My son-in-law told me yer dilemma, and I suspected the worst.” She took Tom's hands in hers. “I'm sorry, my dear. I truly hoped....Well, maybe t’will all be for the best.”

“I plan to go west," he began, but her grip tightened.

“Not yet.” Her voice was firm. “Yer not ready. That's not the sort of undertaking a fellow takes on unprepared, with no money and no supplies. ’Ere.” She picked up a pen from a nearby desk and scribbled on a piece of paper. She folded it and handed it to him, closing his fingers around it. “This is the address of some folks I know in Cambridge. Ye can trust them. Just make sure yer not seen." Her voice broke off, and her eyes glittered with tears. “Dear Tom, ye deserve to be 'appy.”

Happy …. The word seemed magical, impossible.

Martha returned, and thrust a heavy package into his hands. Tom wrapped it together with his book, to make the bundle easier to carry, and cleared his throat. “I cannot thank you enough ....” he began.

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Parker's voice was brisk. “We are friends, ain’t we? Just send a note when ye arrive, so I shall know ye got there safely. Ye needn't use yer real name, I shall know who it is from.”

Her surprisingly strong hands pushed him out the door. “Begone. Ye'll want to get as far as ye can before 'e gives the alarm.”