The Gardener (22 page)

Abigail leaned forward, intrigued that her father had come to the same conclusions. To her disappointment, however, Tom set down the goblet and his handsome features took on their usual shuttered look.

“I hope you will not think me ill-mannered if I do not care to discuss my past. But I assure you that, unfortunately, I can barely read or write my name.”

Abigail sank back in her chair. This was final proof he was no Duke's younger son, that there had been no secret, dashing duel. Tom West was nothing more than he had presented himself: an uneducated working man trolling for labor. And it made no difference whatsoever. She still felt an inexplicable urge to help him, to learn more about his mysterious background, to be near him.

“Never mind.” Her father waved away Tom’s diffidence. “I hope you have no objection if I tutor you in the evenings, young man. You say you do read, a little?"

“Tutor me? In what?”

“In the classics, of course. By the time I'm finished with you, you will be the equal of any lad exiting Harvard.”

An eager look crossed Tom’s face, so fleetingly Abigail wondered if she had imagined it. Then he looked down at his big hands. “But I only wish to be a farmer, sir. What would be the use of educating someone like me?”

Mr. Woodbury airily waved his arm. “Whatever your ambitions, Mr. West, it is my belief that to succeed in any endeavor, one should have a solid education. Did you know that our own President  Jefferson is a farmer? That the ancient Romans considered farming an honorable and virtuous calling? One need only think of Cincinnatus, leaving his farm to lead the troops to victory against the Sabines, then retiring to his humble plow.”

“Cincinnatus?” Tom stumbled over the name.

In spite of her chagrin at having her lofty imaginings shattered, Abigail almost laughed at his bewildered face.

Mr. Woodbury did not pause. “You will need to learn Latin, of course. Do you realize that the word 'virtue' comes from the root
vir
, meaning man? To the Romans, the highest virtues were wisdom, bravery, patriotism, and self- restraint.” He grabbed a quill from the sideboard and scribbled a list on a piece of foolscap. “We will begin by discussing civic virtues, based on the writings of Plutarch. Your reading and writing will naturally improve as we do so—that is, if your modesty is justified.”

“Of course.” Tom's voice sounded strangled, and his eyes followed Abigail as she excused herself and moved toward the door, so the men could continue alone. “But if you are looking for a student, Mr. Woodbury, why not teach your daughter instead? Surely your time would be better spent—”

“I have, I have. My daughter knows more about ancient history than she ever wished to, and she is proficient in Latin and Greek. No, the idea of educating a fresh, unspoiled young mind is what interests me. Tell me, what do you know of Troy?”

Long after Abigail had left the room, she heard her father's voice rumble through the wallpapered wall of the adjoining parlor. At first, it was only his deep tones she heard, rising and falling in lecturing cadences, but after a while, as she bent over her embroidery, she heard Tom’s low voice respond. Either he was interested in the subject after all, or he was merely being a courteous guest. She smiled wryly as she bent over her silver needle. In spite of the flash of eagerness that had seemed to cross his face at the prospect of education, she wouldn't be surprised if it were the latter.

*     *     *

The next day, Abigail dressed in her best morning gown and walked to the home of her friend Sarah Osgood, who lived in the grandest house on Brattle Street. An Irish maid took her calling card, and soon Sarah rushed into the parlor, the ribbons on her cap fluttering. “Abigail! It has been simply
ages
! Come, you must see the twins. They've been growing as fast as sunflowers.”

After they exchanged hugs, Abigail allowed herself to be led to a bright nursery swathed in lace and bows. She obediently oohed and aahed over the two rosy-cheeked cherubs gurgling in matching cradles and couldn’t resist sweeping up the nearest one. It smelled of milk and perfumed soap, and she felt an unexpected stab of jealousy as she stared down at the baby's smiling little face. How wonderful it would be to hold a child of her own in her arms!

“I've missed you, Sarah,” Abigail admitted, as she stroked the infant's downy hair. “But as you know, I do not go out as often as I used to. Papa needs me.”

Sarah sniffed. “But it is selfish of him to keep you locked up inside that moldering tomb, cooking and sewing for him like an unpaid servant! No, do not defend him. What you need is a husband, so you can have a home and babies of your own”

Abigail blushed. She knew she was the object of sympathy from her friends, but until recently she had been content with her lot. Normally she would have countered her friend’s pitying words with spirit, but today she found herself floundering to respond.

She was saved from answering by a nurse who came in and reached for the infant in Abigail’s arms. “Time for the little ones to sleep, Mrs. Osgood. It's past their naptime."

After the nurse tucked the twins into their cradles, Sarah planted a final kiss on their little foreheads before taking Abigail's arm and leading her to a sitting room where tea had been laid out. As Abigail accepted a cup, Sarah fixed her with a searching look. “All right, what is it? Don't pretend this is an ordinary call. You've been quite as much a hermit lately as your father.”

Abigail remembered her letter and held it out. “I was going to post this, but since you live so close, I decided to bring it to you myself.”

Sarah took the letter and read it silently, her fair eyebrows rising as her eyes moved down the page. Then the letter dropped into her lap, and she stared at Abigail.

Abigail found herself compelled to break the awkward silence. “I can assure you, Tom is strong as an ox, and as hardworking. Unfortunately we can't afford to hire him ourselves, so I thought perhaps you....”

Sarah's expression grew shrewd. “Strong as an ox, is he?”

“Oh, yes. He's very tall and has broad shoulders.”

“Hmm. And according to your letter he is intelligent and well spoken. How did you meet this paragon?”

“Our paths crossed in England. Later, a mutual friend sent him to us.” Abigail stirred her tea, looking down so her friend could not see her face.

“Unfortunately,” said Sarah slowly, “We are fully staffed right now.”

Abigail looked up to see Sarah tapping her chin with one finger. “But ... if it matters so much to you, I shall speak to my husband. I'm sure we can find
something
around here for this strong young fellow to do. I'm very curious to meet him.”

After similar visits to other households, Abigail returned with a full list of friends in urgent need of fences repaired, outbuildings painted, and roofs re-shaked. All of them were as anxious as Sarah to meet Tom West.

She found him in the garden, his loose-fitting shirt open at the throat and sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he planted strawberries in the late-afternoon heat. As he listened to her news, a look of surprise crossed his face. “Thank you,” he said, after a pause.

Abigail couldn’t prevent warmth from creeping up her face. “People are always looking for good help, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

He went back to work, and she found herself hovering, unable to leave. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, however, and after a few minutes, feeling foolish, she dragged herself back into the house.

*     *     *

It took all of Tom’s control to keep working with Abigail standing nearby. Despite his acute consciousness of her presence, he knew better than to show it. He had learned his lesson painfully, and he had paid dearly for it. In the old days, perhaps he would have gladly chatted with Abigail, flirted with her, paid her the attention she obviously wished for. But he was no longer the light-hearted, irrepressible boy he had once been.

The fact was, he mourned his late wife deeply, more so due to the painful knowledge that he had not loved her enough while she was still alive. Those first few weeks after her death he’d woken up blindly reaching for her and been chagrined to find the bed empty. When had he had grown to care for Mabel? he wondered now. And why hadn’t he realized it sooner?

Tom closed his eyes, remembering how Mabel Radstone's loyalty and innate sweetness had won him over until he had no longer noticed the plainness of her face. Marriage had changed her, too. Her painful shyness had dissipated, and while he had been planning their journey to build a farm of their own, she would look up at him, her slightly protruding eyes filled with new laughter, her thin frame swelling out with the new life she was creating, and tease him about his obsessive dream.

Coming to himself, Tom realized he had yanked out a thriving strawberry plant along with the weeds. Carefully, he tucked the plant back into the ground, patting dirt around it. It was not only Mabel he mourned, Tom admitted to himself as a fresh stab of pain passed through him. He remembered the bundle the midwife had passed into his arms, how he had only glimpsed the babe a few moments before the midwife had covered the small body and removed it from his presence. But that did not make the ache any less keen.

Now Tom knew love only caused pain, made him vulnerable and weak. Hadn’t he learned that often enough? He’d rather live like a monk than suffer the consequences of another entanglement, he told himself harshly. Besides, although he had come to the Woodburys for assistance, he oddly resented Abigail for his dependence on her. Once he had vowed not to need anyone ever again, and he had suffered from not keeping that vow. Now all he wanted was freedom, and that lay far from here, out west, away from those who would insinuate themselves into his life. West of the mountains nothing would matter but his own strength and skill.

Even so, as he worked Tom found his thoughts kept returning to Abigail. She was not achingly beautiful, like Jenny, nor as slavishly devoted as Mabel, but if things had gone differently, he may well have been more attracted to her than the others. He pictured her pert face, intelligent eyes, and stubborn chin, framed by those thick red-gold locks, through which he was tempted to run his fingers. Her smiles were not coy or artificial like those of so many young women, but a reflection of an inner joy that seemed to bubble over as if she could not contain it.

He stopped working and absent-mindedly swept strands of hair out of his eyes with his forearm. Enough of that. Perhaps he couldn’t control his dreams, but he must and would control his thoughts while awake. It was a good thing he’d be leaving Cambridge soon, Tom told himself. In the meantime, it would be better from now on to take his meals at the tavern, despite the expense. If only the Woodburys were not so cursedly likeable! And if only Abigail Woodbury did not have such a slender waist and such an appealing laugh that lit up her gray eyes!

They had not been laughing just now, however, he remembered. Pain had darkened them when he had rebuffed her attempts to make conversation. For a moment, his resolve wavered. Then, from deep inside him came a surge of boiling anger, so strong his hands shook.
No!
Curse Abigail Woodbury and her gray eyes! Curse all women!

He was no longer a naïve gardener who felt tongue-tied and awkward in the presence of a bit of ribbon and lace. Nor was he a self-assured footman dallying with lovestruck parlormaids in dark corners, or an unhappy indentured servant tricked into matrimony against his will. He was Tom West, soon-to-be master of his fate, and he would not allow himself to be sidetracked by a saucy, red-haired American minx.

Swearing aloud, he grasped his trowel and moved on to the next row.

*     *     *

Although Abigail was disappointed in her attempt to converse with Tom, she comforted herself with the unexpected benefit of his presence—increased time to do whatever she pleased. Her best friend, Sarah Osgood, had been right. Now that Mr. Woodbury had found a new companion with whom to discuss his theories, he no longer seemed to need his daughter’s presence as frequently. And the time-consuming tasks which used to overwhelm her now seemed to take care of themselves.

Although Tom West frequently absented himself for long periods, working at the jobs Abigail had arranged for him as well as others he found for himself, he managed to keep things running smoothly at the Woodburys' house. He took on chores without being asked and apparently without expectation of thanks or reward. He fixed the wobbly leg of the iron stove in the kitchen, whitewashed the fence that encircled the newly expanded vegetable garden, and built a coop for a bevy of new chickens so the Woodburys could have fresh eggs without going to market.

As the weeks passed, Abigail found herself hoping that he had dropped his plans to leave. Maybe he found life in Cambridge pleasant. Maybe … she allowed herself the luxury of daydreaming again … maybe he did not wish to leave her father. Or her.

At night, before the candles were snuffed, he sat in the parlor and talked with her father for an hour or two, stumbling through the
Iliad
and discussing politics and history with increasing skill. She was gratified to see the exchanges brought her father much pleasure. No longer did he nod off at his desk, alone, when she was not there to read to him. He seemed to be younger, more full of life, his eyes sparkling as the two men conversed.